Across space and time
by d'elfe
Summary: Alternate reality. Frances met Tristan fifteen hundred years ago, a knight of the round table (slight crossover with King Arthur 2004). He died in her arms. But now, she has found him again... under the traits of Hannibal. Not one to be deterred, she asks for an appointment with our famous psychiatrist.
1. Chapter 1 - A new patient

**_Hey. I wonder why this popped up, but I needed to get it out of my head. This is an alternate universe, where Frances eventually find Tristan back in the form of Hannibal. She loves him still. For those who just stumble upon my Frances series, do not hesitate to have a look in my profile to see her chronology. _**

**_So, this is the reviewed first chapter of this story and … erm, the rating goes M, then _********_ Enjoy._**

He opened the door with as much conviction as ever, curious to see who had elicited to become his next patient. The same noise, the same whoosh as he pulled the handle to place himself across the frame in a dominant position. The same movement, to greet a patient, or welcome a new one. A dozen times per day, a thousand times since he's settled in this consulting room. Nothing ever threw him off guard, he was ready for anything, feared nothing. He was, after all, the most dangerous of them all. All coiled muscles, keen intelligence, manipulative to the core and resilient to pain; fit as a fiddle should any danger arise. He'd seen any kind of mental diseases, any types of patients in the past. Men, women, some beautiful and quite intent on seducing him. Elderly and youngsters of any background. But she … she was something else.

Her almond shaped eyes stared right at him, unsurprised by his sudden appearance. As if she'd known all along that he would open the door this very instant. High cheekbones complimented her oval face, a little pointy chin ending the line of her elegant jaw. Even in the dim light, he could clearly see her milky complexion, its glow emphasised by the fire of her hair. Long strands framed her face, falling in ringlets of dark red across her chest until they touched her waist. For a moment, he wondered how long it took to obtain such a disciplined coiffure. Yet she didn't strike him as a vain woman; the slight accent of make-up accentuated her warm chocolate eyes. But that was it. No mascara, no artifice, no red lipstick, not even a shade of powder on her cheeks. Fairness in earnest.

Her silhouette was curvaceous, yet lean enough to speak of a dynamic nature. A dancer dark top enhanced her form, while a long, muslin powdery skirt draped over her legs like a silken sheet, suggesting the shape of a long calf, yet hiding it from view. Her poise, alike to a ballerina, called for his lips to land on her elegant neck. How would her pulse point feel under his teeth?

Hannibal almost started, surprised by his own thoughts. This split of a second lasted a moment too long during ; she was literally boring holes into him. As if she could read him … see him! For the first time in his life, Hannibal had to pause before speaking.

— 'Please come in'

The woman only nodded her assent, but for a moment, she remained frozen, her expression filled with sorrow and wonder. As if she'd seen the ghost of a long lost relative. Then she rose gracefully, the ringlets of her hair swaying gently as he stepped back to admit her in his office. She passed him with a meaningful look, her gaze loaded with so many emotions that he couldn't make heads or tails of it. As if she knew him. Hannibal kept his impassive, yet welcoming stance, closing the door silently. She wore no perfume, her delicate smell gently filling his nostrils. Genuine to the very last bit, his perfect doppelganger.

Hannibal watched as she stepped slowly into his den, her intelligent eyes taking in the layout, and the mood of his working room. Silent feet, although she wore delicate dark heels. Keen sense of observation as she turned around to take in the details, her gaze gently brushing his for a scant moment. The therapist motioned her to the armchair, and there she sat, one long leg swiftly moving over the other, the layers of muslin draping once more over them. Only the rounded tip of her shoe emerged from the waterfall of fabric. Elegant. He had to give her that; she could give him a run for his money, although her clothes were much less formal than his. Still, her could see in her choice of fabrics that she loved beautiful things. A woman of taste.

His keen eye caught hers, and he wondered about the simmering emotions that seemed to loom inside her psyché. For they boiled, under the surface; he could almost smell them. Despair, sadness, trauma … but also love and hope, albeit her mask was smooth. To anyone other than a master manipulator, they might have remained hidden. Still, her eyes spoke volumes to him. Their warmth chocolate, almost golden in the indirect light of his office, betrayed her fondness for him. Her wariness as well, as if she expected to be attacked.

What did she want with him?

Settling in his usual chair, putting the professional distance between therapist and patient, Hannibal eventually broke the silence.

— 'What can I do for you, Mrs …?'

— 'Frances.'

The psychiatrist paused, opening his booklet. This name rang a bell, and a strange shudder ran through his spine, a wave of longing.

— 'And your surname?'

— 'I'm just Frances.'

Hannibal had to master his eyebrows to not shot up. There. Maybe she was crazy after all. A new case to evaluate, how exciting. Now, his brain wanted to overtake the session, to steer him back into safe waters. For this woman unsettled him greatly, her presence alone making his body hum in delight.

— 'So, Frances. What brings you to my office?'

— 'You'

Silence ensued. This time, Hannibal set his booklet aside, balancing the item very thoroughly on the armrest to gather his thoughts. A movement caught his gaze, the rustling of her skirt only confirming it; the young woman had risen in silence, not unlike a shadow. Slowly, she stalked to him, the look in her eyes overwhelmed by an emotion he had never seen directed to him. Well, not since he was a child. Awe. And despite her dark top and mane of fiery hair, he could see only light. Hannibal arose as well, all muscles coiled as he watched her approach. Wary. She exuded an air of danger, as if she didn't fear him but knew altogether what he was capable of. At last, she came face to face with him, her slighter stature requiring that she lifted her head – despite the heels - such was their closeness.

Her eyes gazed right back at him, deep emotions swirling behind the mask she'd carefully displayed.

— 'Look at me,' she whispered.

The psychiatrist complied, surprised by his own reaction. Since when did he obey orders from random strangers ? The distance was far from being professional, and he berated himself for letting her close the distance so easily. Hannibal watched the familiar contours of her face – when, exactly, had they embedded themselves in his memory? He noted the shortness of her breath; she, too, was unsettled. He knew that woman, longed to hold her close. Something deep within his soul whispered that she wasn't his in the first place, that he was unworthy of her. Yet he'd never met her.

Eventually, a sigh passed her rosy lips as she asked, her eyes still set upon his face.

— 'Do you not recognise me?'

His head shook from left to right, words failing. Yes, and no. Trapped in her gaze, he couldn't help but notice the flicker of sadness that washed through her eyes. Her presence was so intense, so overwhelming that he longed to melt inside of her. The young woman lifted tentative fingers, silently asking for permission to touch him. Hannibal didn't recoil, too curious, too eager to feel her bare skin upon his. Awaiting for an epiphany; maybe he would remember then.

Her soft fingers cupped his cheek, and he couldn't refrain the onslaught of emotions that washed through him. Love, relief, longing. Hannibal closed his eyes for a second, his heart beating frantically at being touched thus. By a stranger.

— 'Tristan,' she whispered.

His eyes flew open, his own hand came to overlay hers. Fingers brushed against each other on his cheek, the contact of her skin so sweet that he longed to prolong it. He that was used to slicing, dicing and violence couldn't believe what he felt. It had been so long since someone had touched him that way. Silence surrounded them, time stopped as none of them wanted to pull out, their eyes speaking of shock and joy at the same time. Hannibal could only remark how open her gaze was compared to his, even if they shared the peculiar golden flecks that marred their depth. Could she read him as well as he read her?

Then, at last, Frances rose on her toes. Slowly, sensually, her other hand slid gently behind his neck, sending tingles through his skin. A vulnerable spot; should she choose to attack him, she'd have the upper hand. Her fingers brushed the tip of his hair, massaging his skull slightly; a shiver ran down his spine. It felt so right, so true, so loving that his knees struggled to keep him upright. When her eyes fluttered shut, her lips gently rising to his own in the gentlest of caresses, Hannibal wondered if he'd found redemption. A feather like kiss was deposited upon his mouth.

No. Redemption was a concept. But this … the sensual dance of her lips around his, as if she tasted something precious, this was something else altogether. Elation, perhaps? There was no epiphany in his mind – she still was a stranger, and no memory forthcoming – but his body knew. Humming, muscles clenching at her touch, Hannibal felt his need arise and take control. His hands lifted of their own accord, circling her waist to press her against his tall frame. An anchor, while his fingers slid across her spine to settle on her upper back. They found skin, just below her nape, and decided to settle to keep her close. How deliciously soft…

His tongue begged to taste her; she granted his wish with a loaded sigh that caused his heart to miss a beat. As if he had granted the most precious of present. Her scent was a blessing, faint and feminine, like a beacon of light in the darkness luring him in. The prey and the predator. Her taste, sweet heavens! He knew he would never have enough. His tongue swiped across her rosy lips, caressing their plumpness before plunging into the deep, taking full control of the shy kiss she had bestowed upon him. Her warmth engulfed him, her body so plush, so compliant. Softer than he would ever be. Her little hand slid against his waistcoat, finding its way under the suit, pressing his lower back with more strength than her frame let on.

Damn woman, she was going to set him on fire! He needed to react before he was utterly lost! But then, his mind begged for him to surrender. How long since he'd had such a beautiful woman in his arms? In his sheets? The beasts longed for a mate, to bury himself deep within.

Pulling back, his breath uneven, Hannibal couldn't find the strength to let her go. His lips had released her, but the rest of his body refused most vehemently. The young woman tightened her grip on his waist, her wide chocolate eyes fearful. She bit her lower lip, unsure, but didn't come forth. Her gaze, though, didn't leave his face, expecting his decision. As if he could refuse her! But he was in control, the only one in control, right?

In an effort so tremendous that the coils of his mind creaked, the psychiatrist unclenched his hands and let them drop by his side. Frances closed her eyes in defeat, the tightness around her mouth showing how she quelled her disappointment. Then her posture sagged, and she dropped her forehead upon his chest, her hands coming to rest upon his pristine waistcoat. A tentative goodbye, one last moment enjoying his presence. Hannibal frowned, realising how painful it was, for her, to try to let him go. Her despair seeped through him, her emotion so strongly felt that he couldn't guard his own heart against it. The psychopath psychiatrist undone by a teary tiny woman!

His arms surrounded her without asking for permission; his mind screamed a warning – this woman would be his death ! – and was squashed in an instant. The wild beating of his heart probably seeped through his clothes, and he berated himself for showing such vulnerability to a stranger. But she wasn't … her body felt so familiar, her smell like a mate. The slightest of movements – she pushed against him – sent his body in panic. Hannibal tightened his hold, too flustered to understand what had sent his inner self into such a fit. He bent forward, his breath caressing her ear as he coaxed.

— 'Will you come home with me, Lady Frances?'

Lady Frances. Why such a title? It had rolled from his lips so easily, as if he'd heard it a thousand times before. Perhaps an artefact from his noble upbringing, proper addresses long buried. Hannibal didn't get time to ponder much longer for she lifted her head to him. Her eyes shone with unshed tears, an endless pool of warmth watching his face as if she witnessed the purest of miracles. His chest constricted slightly, his mind refusing to be the recipient of such awe. He didn't deserve such devotion. But his heart … his heart felt faint, flooded with light. Would he ever have enough? And despite the stupidity of his proposal – once in his home … who knew what could happen? —Hannibal couldn't bring himself to care. Tonight, that young woman was him to breathe and taste, his to manipulate and caress, his to bring to heaven.

The lady didn't speak much when he locked the door to his office, and pulled her to his car; she was too fearful to break the current mood, and have him change his mind. But why would he, when she offered her affection so easily, so readily? Her eyes didn't widen at the smooth interior of the Bentley; oblivious to its price, or indifferent? A wonder, for the quality of her coat left much to be desired, she wasn't a wealthy woman. Another puzzle for which he had no piece. The ride was slow, and silent. Short as well, there wasn't much distance between his house and his office, even less when cutting through the woods, which he obviously couldn't do with the Bentley. Hannibal pulled the first move, reaching for her hand cautiously stored in her lap.

A gasp nearly bubbled out, mercilessly refrained. But the contact of her skin felt so foreign, and so familiar at the same time. His fingers tingled furiously, asking for more contact. Hannibal frowned, unable to understand the strange pull this woman created. He hated losing control, hated not being privy to the meanders of others' minds, and his own. What could possibly create such a need?

The front gate opened, and he parked the Bentley, exiting without a word. A he circled the car to reach for hers, a sense of familiarity washed over him. His heart, once more, was drumming a staccato. Pushing his interrogations away, Hannibal reached for her hand. She voiced a warm "Thank you", setting her heeled feet on the paved pathway that led to his enormous mansion. Once more, her gaze didn't linger much on the house, her focus resting on him. As if losing him from sight could cause his disappearance.

There was no skittishness when he helped her shed her coat, only a beaming smile when his fingers brushed her shoulders. A warning washed through him when he realised how poor the quality of her coat; what if the woman was after his fortune? In that case … she would probably die for it, and grace his table as a perfect hors d'oeuvre. Yet, her manners, her poise screamed of nobility. And more. Danger…

Hannibal's hand shot up, grabbing her arm to turn her abruptly around. The gesture was nearly brutal, and very firm, but she didn't sway on her feet. Her balance, even on heels, was fairly perfect … nearly as efficient as her reflex to push him away. Her hand shot up to his wrist, ready to break it, or twist it around. Aikido. She stopped at the latest moment, though, realisation that she wasn't under attack dawning upon her features. Yet, she still glared at him defiantly, fire dancing in her eyes as she squared her jaw. Hannibal smirked slightly … as if she had any chance to best him! But it answered, at least, the sense of danger that oozed out of her. The lady Frances was a fighter.

Questions would wait, though, for if he started now, he knew he would never enjoy the delightful evening he had in mind.

His mouth found hers so suddenly that he surprised even himself for being so bold. She was like a drug, as delicious as fresh air after hours in the hospital tainted by bleach, as soft as a cashmere blanket when the weather took a turn for the worse, as delicious as the most delightful of his dishes. Instead of steering her to the kitchen for a polite drink, the psychiatrist picked her up, his tongue still actively swiping inside her mouth. She let out a small squeak, then nestled against his chest as if she'd been residing there forever. A long-lost wife… Such a light weight, compared to his brute strength.

Would she question it, given he was a psychiatrist? Suspect anything untoward, or dismiss it altogether? After all, plenty of men his age worked out. His age … damn, she could be his daughter. So young, so beautiful, so untainted… Hannibal's step faltered, not enough to send them tumbling in the stairs but Frances's grip tightened. If his previous experiment had not given such a blatant response, Hannibal would know, now, how aware the young woman was to her surroundings. Yet, she let HIM, a cannibalistic serial killer, bring her into his lair.

— 'Have no fear, beautiful, I won't let you fall.'

The nickname caused her breath to hitch, or perhaps it was the sultry tone of his voice, caressing her ear. Still, he had no qualms stating that he found her truly and utterly beautiful. Her body relaxed then, her fingers intertwined behind his neck to ease the strain on his arms.

Hannibal laid her on his bed, bluntly stating his intentions. The woman didn't flinch, her porcelain skin so radiant in the petals of his pristine sheets, her fiery hair contrasting with the immaculate white of the Egyptian cotton. Would she burn like Icarus, caught too close to the sun? For she certainly watched him like one, a celestial. Hannibal's deft fingers untied the full Windsor node of his tie, his moves intentionally slow as he removed the piece of silk from his neck. Her shoes hit the floor, removed with the slightest tilt of her feet.

Hannibal unbuttoned his waistcoat ever so slowly, and she watched, still, without moving an inch from his comfortable bed. As if she belonged here. Garment discarded, his shirt still tugged into his slacks, the psychiatrist prowled to the bed. Crawling on all fours to hover over her small frame, his eyes met hers. The light was dimming, painting the room in orange and red hues, yet unable to match the fire within the depths of her gaze. She trapped him there, for a moment of eternity when their breaths mingled. Then she reached for his collar and undid the first three buttons. Her warm fingers hesitantly brushed against his exposed skin, her eyes swimming with untold emotions as she dove for the flesh of his collar. Her lips caught his pulse point, suckling on the tender skin of his neck with sensual slowness.

The sensation that shot through him would remain unnamed for years as his body begged to surrender, tremors shaking his frame. It was all he could do to keep his weight from sagging upon hers. But the fire that poured into his veins sprang him into action – the old man forgotten as he felt the whole power of his efficient body. His hips, still clad in his suit, lowered to meet hers at once, his arousal plain and brutal. The growl that had been building, and refrained, eventually escaped before he captured her lips in a searing kiss, exploring her mouth like a starving man. Frances's back arched, researching his contact as her arms circled him.

From there, things became more heated, hazier as they both wrestled the other out of their respective clothes. Her little hands took great care of his suit, which Hannibal was thankful for, and she kissed every inch of exposed flesh with such reverence that he wondered what he could possibly represent in her mind. And when his large hands diverted her of her dancer top, the psychiatrist found her magnificent, plush flesh over toned muscles. His heated mind didn't give him much time to observe her lacy bra, pulling the long skirt away. He'd rather explore every curve with his lips than linger on the view. How long since he'd had the pleasure of such a natural beauty? She was soft, and energetic, welcoming and strong at the same time. So tasteful under his tongue, so pliable into his hands, so delicious. He needed to have her. He needed…

For a scant second, Hannibal thought of foreplay, and discarded it altogether. He was too far gone, starved. For the moment, nothing but the whole length of her body against his would satisfy his throbbing need. There would be time, later, for games and sensuality. And as he tasted her, caressed her humming flesh and got lost into her enthralling scent, the epiphany came. Stilla stranger to his eyes, but he knew, now, that he would want her again. That the sensations and feelings taking hold of his body would never be forgotten, and that he would enjoy it again. And again.

Her panties were discarded with steady hands – the perks of being a former surgeon – while his heart threatened to leap out of his chest. Hannibal couldn't fathom why he was so flustered, apart from the very sensual round of lovemaking, of course. He had never felt so nervous, so eager before. Her body was calling to him in so many ways, the desire in her eyes throwing him off guard. As if she knew him, intimately, and only wished to renew this acquaintance and become complete again. Frances watched him, pain mingling with awe, begging for him to join their bodies in blissful oblivion. And for once, Hannibal had trouble holding her gaze. One last breath, the full length of her body against his, he dove to her lips and thrust his tongue into her mouth.

She responded eagerly, her arms pulling him close, hips bucking up to meet him. Hannibal could only gasp when he found himself fully sheathed, her legs encasing him in her warmth. The young woman moaned then; a low, throaty sound that lingered as she welcomed him entirely. Her back arched anew; her frame tensed against him, begging him to go deeper, to take her whole. Pleasure exploded in his lower belly, radiating all the way through his spine. Her soft flesh pulsated against him, her arms massaging his back, searching for the muscles that rolled under his sweaty skin.

She was such an amazing dancer in bed, and for once, Hannibal didn't feel the need to introduce variations. Overwhelmed with sensations, he just followed the rhythm and went with the flow, his breath coming in short pants, his lips roaming her face and every single bit of skin he could find. She tasted salty now, her reddish strands in disarray upon the immaculate sheets, her quiet sighs and moans terribly arousing as he worked her body like the theremin. Hannibal's pleasure was building so fast, so strong, burning his insides and he fought to regain a little control, slowing his thrusts in hopes of getting her over the edge first.

Her eyes shot open at once and he watched her face, her lips swollen and skin chaffed raw by his five o'clock shadow.

— 'Don't,' she whispered, her voice hoarse with pleasure.

And he knew what she meant. Don't pace yourself. And so, Hannibal surrendered, his movements more erratic, his thrusts long and deep, oblivious that he could cleave her in two such was his strength. But she took him in stride, her head rolling backwards, exposing her elegant neck to his lips. How incredible, for such a slender woman, to accommodate him so easily. His peak came from deep within, long and intense, overwhelming. His hips dug into hers, his manhood buried to the hilt as he growled his pleasure into her neck, strong arms lifting her from the cushions to crush her against him. It was all it took for her to go over the edge; a surprised cry escaped her lips when her small frame started shaking around him. Hannibal's arms supported her, grounding her into him, and he watched her body unravel with fascination. Her eyes wide open, she was regarding him with such marvel that he wondered if she'd ever had an orgasm in her life.

But there was more to it. Something deep, something hidden behind the wonder, a history of pain and heartache, a lingering sadness. Almost like regrets?

How ironic for a man so cold, so calculated to be able to detect all those feelings in a single glance. In this very moment, though, Hannibal felt alive. And while his body hummed still for the high, he gently set Frances down, kissing her lips, and pulled the sheets over her sweaty form. He too, was in dire need of a shower but he couldn't bring himself to wash her scent from his skin. So animalistic! And so, the psychiatrist lay down, brushing Frances' hair aside, and gathered her into his arms. She melted against him like butter on a shiny piece of roast, warmth seeping from them both, their hearts beating in unison. And for once, Hannibal felt complete.

This evening, for the first time in many years, the good doctor forwent the idea of cooking dinner.


	2. Chapter 2 - To kill or not to kill

**_Hey. I thank you for the reviews and pm ! A hearty thank you to _****_RikkiBlake777_****_ who pushed me to write this chapter this night._**

**_For those new to the Frances' series, the first part of this chapter can be difficult to understand. In short, Frances is the Keeper of Time (details in the 'Keeper of Time story'), she travelled to the fifth century to help King Arthur and his knights (story 'All Hail to the King'). A great friendship was created with Tristan who died in her arms. When she came back, Frances was 'ambushed' by al alien (from Stargate universe) who wanted to study her. She accepted provided he created a clone of her because she wanted to return to middle earth without giving up her duties as the Keeper of Time. So there are two Frances → one is the Keeper of Time, one is shipped to middle earth. And visibly… there might be a third one unaccounted for :D_**

Hannibal shifted in the bed, contemplating Frances' features as she slept. How, in the world, was this even possible? He'd dreamt of her sometimes, in another life, another world. Her warm hazel eyes, her slight touches, light as feathers, her genuine smiles. There was not much left of that woman; he could see bitterness and anger. Who was he to judge? Still, she'd found him, made her way to his bed, and dragged him with her in a sensual dance. Oh, he'd tried to be unemotional and push her away. But after that first kiss, the softness of her touch, he found that he was unable to. And she had refused to take no as an answer, her soft body pressed against his. Opened for him to possess, so willing that he'd melted into her touch. She'd kissed every inch of his chest, and face. Her hands had tousled his hair in the most sensual of massage, her lips claiming his own with need. Sweet, sweet rosy lips than only deserved the most reverent worship.

Her body had yielded to his much harsher one, moulded around his, welcomed him. Her hands, strong and soft at the same time, had crushed him to her, calling, demanding, like a woman drowning looking for one last breath. And for the first time in forever, Hannibal had lost himself to her unconditional affection. The sensation she'd created was a first in his long life… And now that her breath fanned around her, her reddish hair gently framing her beautiful face, he didn't want to chase her away. Yet he must, for he couldn't afford an attachment in his life. What was it, with this woman, that tugged at his armoured heart?

Maybe he could manipulate her instead. Lead her into deception, so that she never discovered his nightly activities. After all, Frances was young, in her twenties, at best. Nearly half of his own age! Her youthful features complimented her taut body so well. Perhaps he could take advantage of it, and keep her in his life for a while. If she remained unsuspecting, she would warm his bed from time to time. If not … he'd kill her, probably.

Giving her one last look – her lashes created two crescents over her lovely cheeks – Hannibal went to stand. There were things in his house that needed to be concealed before she woke up. His hand lifted above her hear; a snap of his fingers would ensure she was sleeping. Suddenly, her hand shot up, grasping his own in a strong grip, and she shifted to tug at him. Hannibal started, from the strength of her fingers, at first, and the fact that she'd reacted to the slightest of moves. She was a light sleeper. That would make things more complicated.

Frances moved closer, nestling on his shoulder, her arm encompassing his chest. Unexpected joy greeted her gesture, her soft body wrapped around his. She did not open her eyes, her rough voice whispering in his ear.

— "Don't go away. Be my cushion. You smell nice, I love it."

Hannibal tensed slightly, and she massaged his shoulder before her hand came to rest upon his heart. Her touch slowly spread warmth through his chest, and the psychiatrist eased up. His smell … he had no idea what it felt like. Hannibal had such an acute sense of smell that he could diagnose diseases on patients. Hence, he didn't wear any perfume, not scented after shave. It was nice, for once, to meet a woman that seemed to share his taste. For she didn't wear any artificial fragrance either, and her sweet scent was rather intoxicating.

Her breath evened out after a while, her body moulded against his, one leg thrown over his, and Hannibal drifted to sleep without realising. Darkness engulfed him, peaceful rather than threatening, and for a few hours, he was just a man. When his amber eyes opened, it was already five thirty. His body yearned to pass into oblivion once more; he had not slept so peacefully in a long, long time. As if her enveloping presence had soothed his mind. Yet, he couldn't afford to get back to sleep. Frances had not moved an inch, attached to him from head to toe. When he shifted his weight, trying to untangle himself, her grip tightened. There was no escaping unnoticed. He needed another strategy.

— "Breakfast?" he attempted.

Frances cracked one eye open, shifting to kiss his chest gently.

— "Later. For the record, I will be a vegetarian for a while. Exception for fish and seafood"

Hannibal tensed, refraining from jumping out of bed. Did she know? Was it possible that he'd been discovered? Sensing his mood, Frances gently lifted her weight out of him to give him an escape. Hannibal sat slowly. Crouching like a cat, she bundled the sheet around her beautiful body, red hair falling over her breast, and sent him a knowing glance.

— "It should be too early for this conversation – five thirty is hardly a civil time – , but you seem restless. I know who you are and I know what you've done."

Unconsciously, Hannibal backed up in the bed, ready for a fight. Hopefully, he should be able to overpower her easily. Something tugged at his heart; disappointment. He had not enjoyed a night ever since … ever. Too bad she had to die. But beforehand, he needed to know his level of exposure.

— "How?" came his smooth voice, demanding.

Frances straightened, reacting instinctively to his own posture. She was wide awake now, and in the dim light of the morning, her skin glowed softly.

— "Irrelevant, at the moment"

The psychiatrist's eyebrow climbed into his hairline, strands falling over his eyes due to her ministrations from the previous night. Coldness crept onto his face, his features set in a stern expression.

— "I hardly think so"

Instead of cowering, the young woman sent him a levelled glare, and suddenly she didn't seem so young anymore. Damn, for a damsel, she certainly could look intimidating. He might have been, had he not been totally impervious to mind games. Her little fingers reached for his thigh, creating a link between them as she pleaded for his acceptance.

— "Hear me out, please. No one else knows. And I will be blunt. This must stop Hannibal. If you think we can be together, if you want it as much as I do, then I'll be here. If you don't, I'll take my leave,"

Hannibal nodded, rendered speechless by her admittance. That was a first in his life. One night together, and she was issuing demands as preposterous as a wife would. Yet, his surprise was his inclination to consider it. Her next words, though, floored him entirely.

— "I love you. I'll love you all my life, regardless of what you do, and who you are. I love your soul, period. But I can't be with a killer. I will still love you if you kill again, but I will go."

Respect bloomed in his chest for this strange woman who laid things at his very feet. He that manipulated people so easily, faced a wall of bluntness. She deserved the truth, and he locked eyes with her.

— "I need to think on it."

— "Fair enough."

Seemingly satisfied, Frances settled in bed once more. Red waves tumbled upon the white sheets as her body, graceful like a cat, curled into the warmth of his mattress. Tugging at his arm, she stole a kiss from his lips before letting go.

— "And Hannibal? Kill me if you must. I'm already dead. But you're the only soul I have left in the world, and I just found you again, I would be loath to be parted from you so soon. Wait a little, would you?"

Hannibal nodded before treading out of the room. So she knew he considered killing her. Yet, she slept in his bed, like a flower washed ashore in the immaculate covers.

_She'd woken up in hospital, in an unknown world not unlike her own. How did she know it wasn't hers? Her first action had been to call her parents … check their address on the internet. Another woman had answered the phone, the address didn't match. Her parents, grandparents, altogether did not exist. Frantic, she'd searched more. She'd called the SGC, Cheyenne Mountain. It was just an air force base. Of course, the military had come to her hospital room. A strange woman, with a name unknown and without papers knowing several direct landline numbers on the base was strange enough to cause an investigation. They were disappointed. Frances was no spy, if a little crazy for suggesting something as nuts as a stargate program. Obviously, she'd bashed her head severely when they found her in this deserted warehouse._

_The year, though, was familiar. 2006. The year she got back from the fifth century, and Loki had accepted to clone her to send her back to the Valar. How did she know? She remembered it as she floated in the alien's glass container, witnessing as her first clone was shipped away._

_This is when it hit her. She was a second clone, another the sneaky alien had kept for study, and probably dumped in an alternate reality to prevent the supreme commander Thor from busting him. Damn him! He'd left her on a world without a stargate program to go home. Here, she was nothing. Not the Keeper of Time – her necklace was gone – nor any member of the FBI. Mulder and Scully had never opened the X-Files. Her friends, her family, did not exist. She was alone, truly and hopelessly alone, stripped of her status, of her name, of the people who loved her. Without papers, without money, without an occupation. Everything she knew, everything she'd been… No one. She was no one now._

_Frances spend many days in hospital, feigning memory loss, considering suicide. She was, after all, not necessary to this world. A singularity, dumped here by a little grey butt, with the memories of the Keeper of Time. It was those memories that prevented her from jumping from a bridge._

_They discharged her, with temporary papers, directing her to a foyer. She found a job. Bitter, and angry, as a self-defence instructor. A life devoid of emotion, between life and death, accumulating a little money that she didn't spend, sleeping in close quarters with youngsters and teenage mothers._

_At night, sometimes, the memory of Tristan visited her. Then, another took his place. A good-looking psychiatrist, with high cheekbones devoid of tattoos. His eyes, though, couldn't be mistaken. Tristan was here. Night after night, she dreamt of him and his dinner parties. Hoping he was alive, really alive and well somewhere in the States. How she wished she could find him; she didn't know how._

_A year passed. Frances didn't even celebrate her birthday. Who knew when she was born, really, at the hands of this alien? There was nothing left of the easy-going lady, nor the Keeper of Time. She could still fight, but lacked the will to do so. She could still listen, but had no interest in others' stories. She could still eat, yet didn't relish in food. Alive and dead at the same time. And when one day, a sordid affair of Chesapeake Ripper came to her hears through the gossip in the foyer she was in, a shudder ran through her spine. The name of Will Graham, and the doctor Hannibal Lecter landed in her lap from a blog. Hannibal Lecter. The psychopath, created by an artist, had a reality in this dimension. Wow. What a wonderful world!_

_Worse … she'd seen his face. There, the little world she'd built for a year came crumbling down. Tristan had come back … as Hannibal Lecter. And he was the only living being in this world she had left._


	3. Chapter 3 - Of Origins and Coriander

_**Hey. A little light material for Hannibal and Frances. After all, he's a master cook so why not enjoy a nice breakfast ! :)**_

His immaculate shirt yet had to sustain a smudge, the apron firmly set in place as he cooked his famous mushroom omelette for breakfast. Precise gestures, dance of spices in the spotless kitchen, ballet of saucepans and blades soothed Hannibal's mind. In the space of twelve hours, his world had been turned upside down; her presence was a tsunami in his life. Finding that another human being knew of him … and was still alive, for one, was a close call. Taking her to his home, to his bed had been fuelled by strange passion. The woman had been eager to reacquaint herself with him. What a strange notion, as if they'd known each other before.

This morning's discussion, though, sent his usually cold and calculated mind in turmoil. She could bring him some measure of peace and happiness, for sure. Her gentle caresses, her lips searching his, her body moulding against his skin. Those sensations had stirred a need he'd discarded for so long. She was a novelty; something he relished in. To study her, to see what she could bring, it was a tempting offer. Keeping her close, in his house, was the safest thing to do. This way, she would be in his power, and unable to denounce him.

But to change his ways, to refrain from killing and cooking human flesh … that was a huge step. Not so different from men on the day they were married, all those dumb guys when their wives asked for them to stop womanising, or watching football with their friends to become better men. Social men, worth treading at their arm. Was Hannibal ready to be tamed? Would those conditions – no violence whatsoever, no manipulation – change who he was? What was he, in the end? What was it that defined … him? Was he only a psychopath killer, the Chesapeake Ripper? Or someone else? Someone more?

The sound of running water taught him the young lady had found her way to the shower. Good. She had been, after all, a magnificent provider of tenderness and pleasure. And love, unconditional love. How weird, to love a stranger so. But her eyes didn't lie; he was not a stranger to her. He, for one, was eager to understand this turn of events. And the reason why he dreamt of her every now and then, clad in armour, wielding a curved sword.

Maybe he could try to abide by her wishes for a while and see how it went for him? Chop, chop, chop. Hannibal sliced into the coriander with swift, practised moves. He knew nothing about Frances, would she even appreciate his menu? What if she enjoyed McDonald's muffins and sweetened cappuccino for breakfast? Hannibal shrugged. In that case, they had nothing in common; he could still kill her after all.

Her feet made no sound on the wooden floor, yet Hannibal sensed her presence right away. Turning around, knife in hand, he was surprised to find her clad into his own shirt – the one her wore the night before. Her hair, tied into a bun, had lost its reddish colour with the dampness. Its wave, entirely tamed to the side, looked strangely similar to his. A few freckles marred her nose, giving her a youthful look. Frances addressed him a crooked smile, seemingly unsure of herself.

— "I am sorry for stealing your shirt, Hannibal. If you wish I didn't, you only have to say so. I had nothing to change into."

The psychiatrist paused, his grip tightening on the knife. Yes, somehow, it should have bothered him that she took this liberty with his clothes. Everything in his life had a place, his garments handled with great care. What if she stained it? Ripped it? Deformed it? Yet, the sight of her lithe silhouette, walking barefoot, long legs exposd below his shirt, was splendid. A token of belonging.

— "If I am to die, I wanted, at least, to be surrounded by your scent."

Hannibal nodded, resuming his chopping without uttering a word. What a strange conversation for anyone else but them. But she knew who he was and what he as capable of. And somehow, he suspected that she was dangerous in her own way. There was no better assessment of one'd body than when sharing one's bed. Behind her innocent smile existed a mind coiled to the extreme, her elegant form hiding efficient muscles. He'd witnessed their ripples below the layer of soft skin firsthand, the way they moved under his deft fingers as she gently rocked against his body. Sensuality incarnated in a woman. Oh, he'd enjoyed it, enjoyed her. Hannibal's senses were, after all, quite developed. And the way she moved around the room, almost like a dancer, light on her feet was an indication as well.

Frances' delicate nose rose in the air, sniffing slightly. Slowly, the young woman approached him to peek at the herbs he was currently mincing, graceful, like a cat about to bolt.

— "Coriander?"

Chop, chop, chop. His knife didn't pause.

— "Yes"

Her voice was soft, barely strong enough to cover the noise of his blade falling periodically upon the board.

— "I adore fresh coriander. Do you grow it yourself?"

— "Yes. In the garden"

Frances tip toed around the kitchen counter, reaching up to bestow a light kiss on his cheek. She had courage, to approach him while he wielded a knife long enough to gut her.

— "Neat"

Hannibal paused, unused to such tokens of affection. How could she be so accepting of what he was? Would she turn on him? His eyes bore holes into hers, and she stared right back.

— "Do you need some help?"

— "No, thank you"

He was the master of the kitchen. Period. His abrupt dismissal though, seemed to chagrined his guest. Hence his next words.

— "Do you cook, Frances?"

— "Aye, I do, but I lack experience. I am French, after all."

Hannibal could almost hear the click in his mind, the noise that two pieces of a puzzle made when they were set right. Cooking, French. Could there be a better start to this acquaintance? Aside from the fantastic moment they had shared in bed, that is.

— "Would you be interested to learn more?"

— "I would be delighted, provided … you know."

Provided I don't cook human remains. But this, she kept silent.

— "Do you drink wine?"

The young woman nodded.

— "Sometimes. Only good one, though. There is no point in drinking alcohol unless it is good one."

Well. They might very well get along. Hannibal threw the coriander into a bowl, mixing it with the eggs. Frances took a step aside to give him the space he needed to pour it all into a saucepan.

— "Do you keep to French wines?" he asked without taking his eyes away from the omelette.

The young woman's hand hovered gently over his back, hesitant, until she let her fingers graze along his spine in a tender gesture. Hannibal paused, a tingle running where her feather touch had awakened the skin.

— "I love them, Burgundy the most because…"

Her tone caused him to put his knife down; she eyed the instrument warily, as if expecting him to run her through. Sadness had crept upon her lovely face, and Hannibal turned to her fully.

— "Because?"

— "My father's origins. Pouilly fuissé, Meursault, Puligny-Montrachet"

Hannibal nodded, reaching for her hand, letting his thumb caressing her knuckles. It was a soft, sweet contact that called her attention.

— "Romanée-Conti"

Her smiled widened, the sparkles in her hazel eyes masking the sadness. Hannibal almost congratulated himself on having chased it away.

— "Ah. I have a budget issue on that one. Still. I also appreciate Bordeaux and Pays de Loire, but am not adverse to California, Chile or South African wines. Some are just poetry. I do not judge a wine by its name, nor a book by its cover."

The sibylline statement touched his mark, and Hannibal, emboldened, slid his hand to her waist to drag her flush against him. The closeness of her form felt good against his body, especially since she had to arch her back to see him properly; at least eight inches separated them. What he found in her eyes dumbfounded him – she was quite a case to study – as much as it shook him. Yes, she loved him, he that knew nothing about her, except that she populated some of his dreams. His lips captured hers in a slow kiss, her hand reaching for his cheek tenderly. Then he cocked his head aside, and showed her the breakfast he'd prepared.

— "Hungry?"

— "Starving"

Hannibal led her to the table, and puller her chair for her. The young woman, still wearing his dark blue shirt, beamed at him for the gesture. She obviously wasn't used to gallantry. Many items appeared on the table; freshly brewed English tea, the coriander omelette as well as buttery toasts and all sorts of treats. Hannibal had outdone himself in a complete vegetarian way. Her shining eyes told him his effort was appreciated; the moan that escaped her lips as she sampled his food feeding his pride.

— "You are a very talented cook, Hannibal. This is delicious."

Silence hung between them for a while. She, eating delicately, him watching her every move. Frances was elegant, and mannered. Not falsely, as she sometimes sat sideways, or let her feet roam over his own. But there was nobility in her poise, some kind of respectability in the way she held her head. And not an ounce of deception. She didn't push him, didn't ask until his decision was made. How she was able to eat breakfast and maintain a proper conversation while her life hung in the balance was a mystery. Perhaps she had nothing to lose. Her presence was a welcome distraction, not a burden, nor a constraint. An invitation to share his world. Then, everything seemed clearer.

— "So what do you think of going to the Opéra?" he suddenly asked.

Frances smiled, understanding his meaning.

— "I would love to… Does that mean you would like to keep me around?"

Hannibal nodded, refraining from voicing the blatant 'for now' that would have been, even more than rude, interpreted as a threat. Yet, Frances picked up on it easily.

— "Until when?"

His startled answer was nearly blurted out.

— "Are you an empath?"

How his control faltered beside her! He would have to be careful; she seemed to call something within him, a part of him only eager to respond. Flustered, he hid his trouble by eating a mouthful of coriander omelette. The numerous tastes mingling on his palate distracted him enough to regain his composure. Frances seemed to look for the right words.

— "No. Or yes. I don't know, though I read people quite easily. It's like a vibe they exude."

Hannibal nodded, his eyes squinting a little.

— "What information does it give you?"

The young woman set her fork down to stare right into his eyes.

— "It is more about intentions. The eyes never lie; they tell me if people are angry, or tense, if they lie or conceal the truth."

— "Do you ever get the wrong impression?"

There was curiosity in his question, but not only. The concealed interest, the way he chose a toast, his eyes avoiding hers. And Frances saw right through it.

— "I have learnt to trust my instincts now. You cannot manipulate me, Hannibal. I won't let you do it. You can get away with many things, I am rather accommodating. But no manipulation, and no killing."

How unfortunate, he mused to himself. Manipulation was such a second nature that he didn't realise it anymore. For a moment, he wondered if he would be able to keep his word. Maybe he could just tiptoe around it, and cheat her into believing him. Maybe not; that particular young lady might actually prove to be a challenge. Yet this new new experience, laid at his feet, was worth seizing.

— "I am not like Will, nor as powerful," she added.

Hannibal slowly sipped at his tea while his eyes bore holes into her.

— "You know of Will Graham?"

Frances me his gaze squarely.

— "I know of many things."

Hannibal's cup of tea gently clanged against his china plate.

— "How?"

How did she know about Will? How did she know about him?

— "It is a very long, very complicated story. Unbelievable to rational minds. Better kept for later, if you don't mind."

Hannibal wondered, for a scant second, if he should kill her now. She was, after all, depositary to secrets that could lead him to his doom. But then, his reason reminded him that she knew no more than yesterday before even he discovered her existence. Eventually, the psychiatrist relented. The morning was, so far, rather pleasant. He'd never experienced this kind of simple domesticity, like a husband and a wife partaking the first meal of the day together. Still, he couldn't ignore the tug of his mind as he asked.

— "Why are you here, Frances?"

The words she spoke made no sense to him, for he never had such strong emotions. Yet, he couldn't help but feel humbled by them as they poured out of her mouth.

— "I am not here to confound you, Hannibal. I wanted to find you. You are the only one I have left in the world, I want the moments we have together to count."

She sensed his hesitation, for she added with a smile.

— "I'll be more a cat than a dog. I won't disturb your life, won't depend on you and won't tear your furniture with my nails."

A smile quirked his lips as he bent over the table.

— "Cats don't cook"

Frances' hazel eyes twinkled with mischief.

— "That will be a première. A cooking cat!"

Hannibal smirked.


	4. Chapter 4 - Opera

**_Hey. Honestly, I don't know who quite reads this, but I like the direction it is going. It should be a short story, no more than 30 k words I guess. But there will be a real ending. It quite breaks the Hannibal series though, as Frances' presence and conditions do not allow our favourite doctor to have fun with Will as much as he would like to._**

Standing in his pristine three-piece suit, Hannibal waited for his new companion to descend the stairs. Like the famous Jack in Titanic, he wondered how beautiful his redhead would be this evening. When her arm would rest in the crook of his elbow, would he be proud or annoyed that she had barged, unannounced, into his life? The psychiatrist fixed his cuffs properly, his keen hearing noticing the slight tap of heels on the wooden floor. One good point for her; Frances was punctual. He had now awaited no more than five minutes.

It had been a strange day. Not because of their activities, albeit it had been awhile Hannibal had gone shopping for evening dresses. Forever, actually. The weirdness didn't come from the content of his Saturday, but from the incredible tales Frances had fed him with. They had walked leisurely, her hand settled in the crook of his elbow as he took her from shop to shop in the city centre, occasionally stopping for a tea in a brasserie he knew well. How she had blushed, trying those dresses which price tag didn't agree with her purse. Hannibal couldn't care less; he was taking her to the Opera, she needed to fit his standard. She loved noble fabrics and simple things, no unnecessary adornments or flashy items. Frances was quite capable of discerning natural silk from artificial satin, and earned his respect with her sober tastes. But when she admitted, sheepishly, that she didn't have much in her name, Hannibal couldn't help but start his line of interrogations.

Time travels, alternate realities, little grey aliens and stargates. This was the story of her arrival. Of her memories. And he, Hannibal Lecter, was a fictional character in her world. This is how, she claimed, she knew about him and his ways. It was a miracle his eyebrows had not fled into his hairline to settle permanently. Her tales were so preposterous, but her eyes didn't lie. She knew it, as she gazed upon him, and softly admitted she was afraid he would kick her out of his life because he thought her crazy. He had chuckled then, and seductively whispered in her ear that being a weird case himself, he wasn't about to be picky about her mental health. This comment spooked her; the woman tensing slightly. She was adamant about the truth of her story, even if it made no sense. It gave him insight on her disease. Schizophrenia, perhaps, consequently to an assault. He had remarked upon her awareness of her surroundings, the tension in her body. As if she expected an attack anytime. Yet she relied upon him, trusted him. This, alone, was testimony to a mental disorder.

Hannibal's world truly was upside down. The wheels in his head kept running, wondering why she acted so normal if she truly believed in her story. Was is post-traumatic split personality? Only time would tell. Honestly, Hannibal didn't care for it; he was more than capable of defending himself should things go awry. His little minx wouldn't get the upper hand if she went crazy on him.

The gentle tap tap echoed in the stairs, and Hannibal straightened to welcome his lady for the night. As Frances appeared in the stairway, her beauty took his breath away. She wore a dress of very dark blue – matching the shade of his own tuxedo – that contrasted with her creamy complexion and fiery hair. Lace covered her arms up to her shoulders where the neckline plunged in a lovely V, exposing just the right amount of her skin to entice him to kiss it. The skirt flowed around her hips, suggesting, without showing the perfect arch at the small of her back. Hannibal knew better though … the memory of his hands roaming that place quite clear. The very top of her hair twisted in a loose but complicated braid, pulling it away from her face, while the rest tumbled in loose locks to her hips. She had applied a little more make-up than usual, the shadow at the corner of her eyes more pronounced. The perfect and discreet frame for her lovely almond eyes.

Hannibal's eyes sparkled; pride filling his chest to see her so beautiful, and eager to spend the evening with him. A young beauty for an aging man; she wouldn't be the only one. Except that she wasn't after his money; their shopping session had shed quite some light on how awkward Frances was about him doting on her. His reaction, although very contained, caused her to smile shyly. The psychiatrist gathered her hand in his, and bestowed a kiss upon her knuckles that caused her cheeks to blush.

— "You look lovely," he said. "You will outshine every woman in the room."

Her blush intensified, the rosy hue of her pale cheeks enticing him even more. Instead of reacting to his flattery, she instead chose to compliment him.

— "As do you, Dr Lecter. A true gentleman"

Hannibal bowed slightly. Then, his fingers gently trailed along her collarbone, caressing the smooth skin.

— "Something is missing," he suddenly said.

Frances frowned, her nose scrunching a little in an adorable expression.

— "Whatever do you mean?"

Hannibal fished a long golden necklace out of his pocket with a single, beautiful sapphire surrounded by diamonds. An appropriate gift for a beautiful woman. Frances gasped, her hand shaking a little as he asked her to turn around. He gathered her hair to the side, marvelling at its softness as the curls unfurled in his grasp, bouncing back the moment he released it. No product could give one's hair such liveliness, such texture.

— "How do you tame your hair, Frances?" he suddenly asked, his nose buried in the soft curls.

— "I don't, they have a life of their own, I only help them into shape by twisting my bun after the shower."

Hannibal hummed slightly, clasping the pendant around her neck, careful not to get it tangled in her fiery mane. Then, his sensual lips bestowed a slight kiss right below her ear, then followed a trail down her collarbone. Frances leant backwards with a moan, her body leaning on his front, her hand grabbing his fingers tightly. Hannibal smiled, proud of the effect he had on her. Then she turned around in his grasp, and reached for his slicked back hair, unhooking a single strand with a crooked smile.

— "And if I may, yours look nicer untamed."

Hannibal eventually laughed; his memory of nightly activities quite fresh. She indeed enjoyed tousling his hair when he made love to her, roaming her hands on his skull, massaging his nape. The best feeling in the world, the only moment when he accepted – sometimes – to surrender control.

— "Thank you, Hannibal"

For the necklace, for his kindness, for his acceptance of her in his life. Yes, she was a strange woman. Probably crazy as well. But he didn't care one bit as he reverently pulled her hand into the crook of his elbow, and led her to the car.

The soprano's vibrato touched her heart, making her entire body hum as she powerfully swept the audience from their feet. Despite her enjoyment of classical music and opera, Frances never had the occasion to attend a real performance. To say that she was floored was an understatement. Tears regularly escaped her eyes such was the beauty of their voices, the strength it conveyed, the sorrow expressed through a million variations. How they mastered it, how those singers and performers managed to turn this into a chef d'oeuvre!

A quick peek to her left gave her the most incredible of sights. Beside her, Hannibal was crying. Her chest swelled with hope. If music could sway his heart thus, maybe all was not lost. Maybe she would be able to stir emotions within him, to make him feel … to save will Graham, and the others from his killer instincts? Tentatively, Frances removed her glove, her fingers reaching for his in an attempt to bond. She didn't look at him for fear he might withdraw, or feel under scrutiny, keeping her eyes on the scene. But when the palm of his hand turned around to enclose hers, she knew her point was made. It was a great feeling, to lose oneself in the music while his hand anchored her to reality. To the reality of his presence, and perhaps one day, his love. For the moment though, he had cared for her like a gentleman. What more could she ask, when she had barged in his life unbidden, and made nonsensical demands?

Her nape tingled, but not in the pleasant way this time. Something was wrong. Following her instincts, Frances turned around discreetly. Her eyes roamed across the room the same way she read a book, passing less than a split second over each face in search of the ones that would make sense. Then she found it. Someone, at the back, was observing Hannibal rather intently. A short man, with a rounded face and awe written on his features. Except that it wasn't directed at the performance, his attention fully absorbed by Hannibal. The young woman frowned slightly, but the man caught her gaze and smiled bashfully. There was no danger in his eyes, nor in his posture, and she returned the greeting with a nod before turning around. Absorbed in her analysis, she had missed his dark companion.

Willing her heart rate to settle, Frances exhaled slowly, getting her attention back to the show. At once, Hannibal's breath brushed her ear, his smooth voice sending warm tingles through her body.

— "Franklin is my patient, nothing to worry about."

So he had noticed he was being observed. Scout one day, scout forever. Frances squeezed his hand in understanding, reluctant to disturb the peaceful moment on stage, when his lips suddenly bestowed a feather like kiss upon her temple. A genuine token of affection that warmed her to the core. Her blush intensified as he laced his fingers through hers, his thumb gently caressing her skin until the end of the act. As much as she enjoyed this moment, she couldn't wait to return home and snuggle in his arms. It was the only place in this world where she felt safe. The final was explosive, the soprano's voice so powerful that goosebumps appeared on her arms. Hannibal was the first on his feet, clapping with such strength, such emotion that Frances would have followed him to the end of the world. How she loved this man! Even if he had changed, even if Tristan was buried deep within the walls of his soul, the spark was still there. And when he gathered her arm into the crook of his elbow once more, she felt like the luckiest person in the world.

The guests crowded the great hall after the performance, evening gowns, jewels and expensive suits on display, hidden behind the best of manners. Or so they thought. Those people sauntered around like they owned the world, contempt dripping from their attitude, the rudeness hidden behind a façade of well breeding. In short, most of the people they brushed elbows with stank of wealth and superiority. Hannibal though, seemed impervious to it all. Looking absolutely dashing in his tuxedo, he navigated the throng will well practised smiles and nods. His eyes, though, betrayed him. He despised them, most of them, just as much as she did. Not for the same reasons, surely, for Frances couldn't stand all this falseness, while Hannibal reacted to inner rudeness.

An ageing woman clad in a red dress, lipsticks matching the garment, suddenly called his attention. Hannibal bestowed it willingly, introducing the harpy as lady something of whatever while her eyes roamed about Frances with a sneer.

— "And who would that young woman be? Your niece?"

Frances pursed her lips to refrain from laughing. There it was, the judgement about her youth. Needless to say, that despite her age, she had been through more than any of those people reunited. Experience could mature a soul prematurely. Hannibal's hand came to rest on hers in a tender gesture, his face straight as he answered.

— "May I present you my companion, the lady Frances."

Such a title would have deserved a curtsy, had she dared to insult the woman before her. Instead, she only dipped her head with a blush. Companion. Lady. Smooth talker.

— "Oh. My apologies, I was led to believe you were single."

Frances bit the inside of her cheek. How rude, to inquire so blatantly about his martial situation ! But somewhere deep within, she shook with fright, expecting his answer.

— "Not anymore"

The young woman faltered, gathering a crooked smile from the psychiatrist that made her knees buckle. Even after four days haunting his house, she didn't expect him to claim a status change so easily, to accept her presence in his life. But his tone, if friendly, was final. There would be no more said on the matter, and the red lipstick lady, curtain of dark hair dancing about her thin face, graciously inclined her head.

— "Aren't you a pretty little thing", she cooed, hoping to transform her insult into an attempt to redeem herself.

Nor Hannibal, nor Frances caught her act, but instead of flying to her defense, Dr Lecter landed his hazel gaze upon her. Wondering what she would do. Damn manipulator ! Frances straightened then, lifting a chocolate eyebrow high upon her brow as she adressed Mrs Komeda with false politeness.

— "What a peculiar manner to describe a human being" she retorted.

Beside her, Hannibal's lips twitched. The fire of her eyes betrayed the predator that rumbled within, swirling in anger behind the cage of decorum. A feeling he knew well. Mrs Komeda seemed to blanch, coughing awkwardly before catching a flute of champagne upon a passing tray to regain her composure. Hannibal disguised his smile behind the rim of his glass, feeling Frances' hand squeeze his other arm. The pretty little thing had grown in intensity to put the woman back into her place, retreating to the background once her claws had torn her enemy down. Interesting.

Slightly flushed to be called upon her politeness, the older woman took a sip of the less than excellent drink and resumed her assault on Hannibal; she probably deemed it safer than to poke the panther by his side.

— "Well. Then, it's been too long since you've properly cooked for us, Hannibal."

— "Come over and I will cook for you."

— "I said properly."

Frances felt the insult keenly, and retorted icily.

— "Anything Hannibal cooks fits that definition."

The woman gave her a condescending smile, one that said, 'I knew him before you did, child.' Guess what, I knew him fifteen hundred years ago, harpy! You were not even dust in the wind at that time.

— "Yes dear. What I meant was dinner and the show. Have you seen him cook? It's an entire performance. He used to throw such exquisite dinner parties"

Blood drained from Frances' face. Dinner parties, the staging for human parts, probably. Her hand tightened on Hannibal's arm, and he sensed her distress. How could a man dubbed a psychopath be so attuned to her emotions? That was a wonder. Unless he was no psychopath; only using his empathy for mischief. There was no box for Hannibal such was his complexity; she would have to get used to it and explore every corner of his personality. But the annoying lady wouldn't relent.

— "You heard me. Used to," she added wittingly.

Hannibal's lips slightly quirked in a condescending smile, one that Tristan sometimes wore when he was up to no good. But on the psychiatrist's face, tuxedo, clean shaven face and poise, no one even noticed the twinkle in his amber eyes. Fools, all of them, to think him a 'pride and prejudice' dandy instead of the ruthless and very capable killer that he was. His act was good, though, all manners and poise, discreet smiles and cheery front. Even his body language was tuned to present a fake openness.

— "And I might again, once inspiration strikes. I cannot force a feast. A feast must present itself."

There it was, the confirmation of the peculiar parties Hannibal used to throw around.

— "It's a dinner party, not a unicorn" was the horrible lady's rude retort.

Frances felt like slapping the bitch. How dare she speak to Hannibal this way? But her handsome man's eyes twinkled. He enjoyed the banter, enjoyed toying with her. He had power; she expected something from him that he wasn't willing to give … for despite his assurances, Hannibal had no intention to relent.

— "Oh, but the feast is life. You put the life in your belly and you live."

Despite the fact that the woman could not understand a word of what Hannibal truly meant, she chuckled. Then her eyes left Hannibal's face – at last! – to peek at something behind Frances.

— "I believe this young man is trying to get your attention."

The paunchy man, Franklin appeared by their side, beaming from ear to ear. His tuxedo failed to accommodate the sheer size of his belly and the width of his shoulders, but it didn't matter for the man looked truly ecstatic.

— "Hello" he said, shaking Hannibal's hand, then Frances.

His joy, so genuine as he greeted them, flooded her with warmth. Beside him though, stood a block of ice clad in a black man's skin. Dark eyes, devoid of any feelings, passed her without a second thought, landing on Hannibal instead. The psychiatrist seemed unaware of the scrutiny – Frances wasn't fooled though, nothing passed him – as he chose to address Franklin instead. In polite circles, one didn't talk to strangers before being introduced. Once more, the Jane Austen setting was resurfacing.

— "It's so good to see you."

Knowing his manners, Franklin pointed to his friend, the icicle.

— "This is my friend Tobias."

— "Good evening," greeted Hannibal as he shook his hand.

Frances wanted to flee from the man; he gave her the creeps. But rules would be rules, and Hannibal had to introduce her.

— "This is Frances, my companion."

Franklin's awe couldn't climb another notch as he discovered that his hero; Hannibal Lecter, had landed such a young and beautiful woman. But Tobias had no care for her, shaking her hand with his eyes glued to Hannibal. When his fingers encased hers, grip strong, unrelenting, she knew at once this man was dangerous. His hand didn't linger though, even if it had, she wouldn't have been able to shake him off. Not politely, that is.

— "How do you two know each other?" asked the older woman, still clinging to Hannibal like dirt on his shoes.

The psychiatrist smiled, unwilling to give Franklin away.

— "There should remain some mystery to my life outside the opera."

Frances chuckled at that, if only they knew the full mystery of Hannibal! The other man, though, would have none of it. Genuine to the bone.

— "I'm one of his patients."

Well, the cat was out of the bag. At least, the guy was man enough to admit to seeing a therapist. Frances smiled at him, but he only had eyes for Hannibal. Between his awed observation of the man – she could relate to that; Hannibal was fascinating, and devilishly handsome – and Tobias's creepy look, she wondered how the psychiatrist managed to keep his composure. He was sturdy under pressure.

— "Did you enjoy the performance?" he asked Franklin.

— "I did. I loved it. Every minute."

The man was babbling, like a fan meeting a star between gates at the airport. Tobias, though, felt compelled to be even creepier as he said:

— "His eyes kept wandering. More interested in you than what was happening on stage."

Hannibal's lips quirked slightly.

— "Oh, don't say too much. You must leave something for us to discuss next week. Franklyn, good to see you."

His polite dismissal was enough for Frances to admire his quiet authority. Damn, the man had it all … except for the empathy. Franklin seemed a little chagrined, but respected the distance as he greeted him back.

— "You too."

— "Tobias."

With a final nod, Hannibal locked gazes with the tall back man. Was it a challenge she read in his amber eyes? Some cold, hard promise, an expression that had fear creeping her spine. Frances shuddered, and Hannibal turned to her, his face morphing instantly in one of concern.

— "Cold, my dear? Let us head home."

It took a while, sitting in Hannibal's car, for Frances to stop shivering. Hannibal had gently draped his coat over her as she sat, and they were now conversing.

— "Did you enjoy the evening, Frances?"

The young woman chose a partial truth, hoping it would occupy her mind and lead her thoughts away from the creepy Tobias. And Franklin, and that horrible woman who wanted to bed her man. HER man! Hers.

— "Frances?"

The young woman addressed him a smile.

— "The piece was incredible, a beautiful Aria."

— "Cleopatra's curse to the one that imprisoned her" was his reply as he exited the highway.

— "Well, it was very realistic. Although I doubt that she was a redhead."

Hannibal's lips pursed slightly, the corner of his eye smiling while the rest of his face didn't move an inch. He found himself quite partial to readheads suddenly.

— "No, probably not"

— "And it is a shame I didn't understand the lyrics."

— "You do not speak Italian?"

Hannibal seemed surprised. Was it because of her origins, or because he thought her a cultured woman?

— "As a matter of fact, I do, partly at least. It has been a long time since I visited Italy"

Another nod, curious this time, that promised a severe round of questions in a near future. Hannibal's mother being of Italian descent, he had become very fond of the country.

— "Anyway. The opera distorts lyrics so that the sounds are more rounded, and easier to sing. I do not think I would understand a piece in French either way."

— "You have some knowledge of opera singing?"

As usual, his question felt more like a statement rather than an interrogation. It was Hannibal's way of fishing information out of his patients, being ambiguous all the time allowing manipulation. But Frances had nothing to hide, and was therefore forthcoming with anything he wanted to know … and probably things he didn't either.

— "I have been in a choir for a while."

— "I'm glad to hear it."

Was he, really, with this straight face of his and even tone? Damn, he was even harder to read than Tristan.

— "Do not mistake me, Hannibal. I do sing, but nothing like this."

— "I wouldn't expect you to. But you have been avoiding my question. Or at least, part of it"

Frances sent him a heartfelt glare. Trust the psychiatrist to know something had been left unsaid. Two could play this game, and for a while the young woman kept to her musings. Until she had enough of the silence.

— "Whatever do you mean, darling?"

Her sweet voice, the nickname, and her fake surprise made his lips twitch again. She was a minx, showing that she, as well, could beat around the bush.

— "What about the rest of the evening?"

— "Before the swarm of women tried to catch you, I had a great time."

This time, the psychiatrist laughed. She was cute that little tigress, rumbling about the women attempting to catch his eye, his bed and his fortune. Somehow, he knew that Frances wasn't after any of this, and it strangely reassured him.

— "Are you being jealous?"

— "Of course, I am."

Needless to say, that her jealousy was enticing, and entirely useless. None of the women present this evening held a candle to her.

— "They were probably spooked to find you at my arm. A beautiful lady, younger than them didn't flatter their ego. But I didn't take you for the possessive type."

— "You were obviously wrong. Am I allowed?"

For a moment, Hannibal just drove, eyes squinting to discern the road markings in the night. It was a fair question. Not that he bedded any women, but would Frances be allowed to claim him as hers? Was she, in return, his? It should have been way too early in this relationship to answer it. Yet, somehow, it felt right. Turning to her, Hannibal nodded once. Yes, she was allowed to be possessive. There was no other woman he'd rather be with. Relief washed over her features, followed by a look of concern. Her hand shot out to squeeze his forearm.

— "Hannibal. This man, Tobias, he worries me. Something is wrong with him."

— "And you say you're not an empath?"

The young woman gave him a surprised look before understanding settled in.

— "So you have noticed as well?"

Hannibal stopped the car in front of his mansion, the automatic front gate opening slowly.

— "Something is uneven in the relationship with Franklin."

— "His eyes were so cold," she whispered, her gaze lost in the night.

— "Like mine?"

Frances started, her wide eyes meeting his. She looked very much like a deer caught in the headlights at the moment, and Hannibal reached for her hand. It was cold, and he brought his other hand to warm the soft skin, giving her time to make an assessment. He liked it, that she always took the time to think things over before speaking; that she always granted him with the truth.

— "No. There is warmth in yours, and light."

Something deflated in Hannibal, his cold core expanding just a little at her words. So, she saw what he was, and it held more significance than he thought it would. Kissing her knuckles, he regarded her seriously.

— "I am not a psychopath, Frances. I have feelings. I knew what love was, once. This man never did."

She didn't ask what caused the change. Perhaps she already knew, or was too afraid to pry. Still, this was the weirdest discussion he ever had with a woman. Holding her hand, telling her of his mental disorder as if he talked of the weather. Her hazel eyes, though, did not leave his face, and he marvelled once more at the unconditional acceptance. She was worried, for him.

As Hannibal drove through the portal, closing it behind them, Frances reached for his shoulder, setting her head against him.

— "The man has noticed you, I don't like it one bit."

A swell of tenderness flooded his body, something he had not felt for ages.

— "I will get to the bottom of it with Franklin, rest assured. Do not fret, my dear, I can take care of myself."

His words had a strange effect, for she lifted her head, and kissed his cheek with a beaming smile. Little did he know that 'do not fret, my dear' resembled much the 'don't fuss, woman' that Tristan would have served her in similar circumstances. Her tone turned playful, her fingers caressing his waistcoat.

— "With that body of yours, I bet you can."

Hannibal smiled wickedly.

**_Aren't they cute together ? If you enjoy reading this, please leave me your thoughts. It will be happy to respond._**


	5. Chapter 5 - The fight of one's life

**_Hey! The latest 'favourite' set me in motion again. I hope you enjoy this little bit of drama. It might be a little violent compared to what I'm used to writing, but this Frances embraces her darkness more than the others._**

She knew, from the moment her eyes opened to the world, that it was going to be a bad day. The reason for it? None. She had woken up, ensconced within the safety of Hannibal's arms, her cheek on his chest, listening to the sturdy beating of his heart. Ever since their meeting four days ago, she had not left his house. Habits that shouldn't exist already bloomed, as if they had known each other for far longer than four days. But again, Frances didn't question it, for they might have been lovers, fifteen hundred years ago, has death not parted them. Now came the time to savour it. And when Hannibal's breath became heavier, she couldn't help but kiss his beautiful lips in greeting.

And despite the fact that this man, her man, was a psychopath, he still could be passionate in bed. They shared a beautiful moment within the sheets, exploring, moaning, kissing to their heart's content, until Hannibal fell beside her, sweat tickling down his brow, panting from the exertion. He was more handsome this way, ruggedly spent, chest dripping, his body shivering, than in any of his three-piece suits. Vulnerable. It was the only moment when Hannibal was laid bare, and she marvelled that he allowed it. His breath evened out, and he remarked cheekily how he wasn't a young man anymore, amber eyes boring into hers with an unspoken question. She scoffed, dragging him to the shower, showing him exactly how he was more than fit to keep up with her. His body was lean, efficient, full of raw power that he concealed below shirts and waistcoats. Not that she minded; he looked stunning in those finely tailored garments.

Still, the sense of dread had not left her. And when Hannibal passed the front door, leaving a kiss at the corner of her mouth, then square on her lips to prevent her from protesting, her heart started drumming in anticipation of his return.

— "Until later, beautiful," he whispered before disappearing into his car.

From that moment, Frances started to count every minute. To pass the time, she had roamed the place – even the basement – settled for some music and started making gnocchi. She had no clue about her great-grandmother's recipe, but enough memories of making them, and rolling them on a fork to start working on it. It took her two hours to get the dough right – it was her second time, after all – and another hour to create the little rolls. Once her gnocchi were complete, the young woman started pacing back and forth. Something wasn't right, she could feel it in her bones. That sense of uneasiness kept growing, and she had no clue what to do about it. She was alone, in this world, except for Hannibal. And she knew he didn't believe her crazy tale of her arrival, not that she blamed him. But then, she wasn't about to ramble on premonitions.

After eating some left over from yesterday evening, some delicious fish dish with a complicated vegetable arrangement, Frances decided to work on a porcini mushroom sauce. Hannibal had a few boxes of dried ones that she boiled for ten minutes, before setting it to rest for an hour or so. Then, she used the water to create a béchamel sauce, adding some cream and an egg yolk to complete it. In the end, she was rather satisfied with her work.

The clock rang 4 pm, startling her. A shiver ran down her spine, cold dread pooling in her stomach. For the umpteenth time that day, the young woman checked her mobile phone. Nothing. Well, nothing else than the midday texts Hannibal had sent her. She didn't dare interrupting his sessions; it would have been very rude. What if he was with a patient? But she needed to know how he fared. At last, Frances decided to send a text.

— "Are you all right, darling?"

Then she watched her screen, waiting. Not five minutes later, her phone beeped discreetly.

— "Yes. I am seeing my last patient and then I'll be home."

Her vision blurred, and Frances grabbed the counter, suddenly unsure of where she was. Franklin, the man they had met in the opera, was on the floor. Blood everywhere, his eyes unseeing. Next to him lay an arm clad in a shirt, and a suit jacket. The hand, she would have recognised anywhere, for she had kissed it day and night. Hannibal!

Grabbing her phone roughly, she typed in frantically.

— "Isit Franklin?"

She didn't even take the time to correct the typo, sending it right away.

— "Yes, why?"

This time, Frances called in directly. Her breath was short as panic settled in. Hannibal picked up his phone instantly. His voice was stern, rather pissed by her meddling.

— "Yes? Is there anything wrong?"

— "I … listen, Hannibal. I know it will sound weird, but I have a very bad feeling about this session."

She could nearly hear him sigh in frustration on the other side of the line, but he kept his composure.

— "Franklin is not dangerous, Frances. I know you feel nervous about this, but it is all right."

— "I think Franklin is in danger, and so are you."

Being the psychiatrist he was, Hannibal didn't lose his cool, answering her as he would a patient.

— "I understand that you feel uneasy. I will speak with him about warning the police."

Frances gasped in frustration. He didn't understand! He couldn't understand, he that thrived on science and rationality. But gut feelings saved lives! And she could practically smell bloodshed to come. Trembling, she nearly begged him.

— "Lock the front door, Hannibal."

— "There is no need to panic Frances."

She felt like screaming! But if she did, she knew he wouldn't listen. Forcing her breaths to calm down, she only repeated.

— "Please, do it for me. Please"

— "I will. Will you be all right by yourself, Frances?"

— "I'm all right," came her wobbly response.

— "I will see you in an hour and a half, dear. Until then"

— "Until then, darling"

Frances darted off before the tone even echoed in her hear. Grabbing her best shoes – a pair of ballerinas with low heels – and her coat, she practically ran down the stairs. Hannibal's office was four miles away from his house, but from the looks of her Google map, she could just cut through a piece of park and reduce it by half. More than two miles to cover, and no car. Calling a cab would have taken too long; Hannibal lived in a rather secluded area, who knew if she would cross paths with one? Frances took off running, her long skirt flying behind her as she covered the distance. Never before had she been so happy to have a strong sense of orientation. Basically, she couldn't get lost. It came in handy, for her instincts led her in the right direction, diving under the trees, jogging through paths and modest pedestrian roads to reappear right in front of the right street less than fifteen minutes later. 'Hurry,' she grumbled under her breath. 'Hurry.'

Her shoes hated every minute of her run, being dragged in the mud, then mistreated on concrete like a pair of vulgar sneakers. But they held true. Panting heavily, Frances ran as if the devil tailed her. Until she came into view of Hannibal's building. She worked on adrenalin, the sense of dread holding her in a vice grip, pushing her further, faster. Sweat trickled down her brow, following her temple as it dripped under her blouse. A car passed her, one of many. But for once, the driver didn't turn around to peek at this peculiar woman, running like crazy in the streets of Baltimore. Not like the others had. No, he didn't, for that driver was Tobias, and he didn't care for her. He came for Franklin, and Hannibal. Yelling in frustration, Frances could only watch as the car parked in front of the psychiatrist office a few hundred yards away. If Hannibal heeded her warning, he would get stuck at the door. By then, she would be able to call for help, or the police, and they would be safe.

Her plans were foiled, though, when she realised with horror that Tobias has penetrated in the building.

— "No!" she cried.

He had not locked his door! Damn Hannibal and his rationality, he didn't trust her! Tristan would have, he had witnessed first-hand the efficiency of her vision when she saved Dagonet from the clutches of the icy lake. But Hannibal didn't believe in her … dismissing her intuition for the ramblings of a mad woman. Insults flew in her head, rendering her even angrier. Despite her disappointment, though, fear was building up quickly.

At last, she had made it. Climbing the steps two at a time, she jumped at the door and pushed it away to run into the corridor. The door between waiting room and office was open, grunts and crashes indicating a fight was occurring. As Franklin rushed out, Frances took hold of his arm.

— "Call Jack Crawford," she yelled at him as she launched her handbag into his chest.

The round man's eyes were wide with terror.

— "Tobias, he's … help him! Please help Dr Lecter"

Frances ran with all her might, passing the door in haste. What she discovered froze her blood to icicles.

Tobias held Hannibal on his desk, hand at his throat, the letter opener inches from his face. In this very moment, Frances forgot her humanity. All she could see was Tristan's face as he died, his mouth bleeding, his life force pouring out of him from numerous stab wounds. That sorry excuse for a man was going to take the very last thing she had in this world. Hannibal, the man she loved. After losing everything; her family, her friends, her world, everything she owned. He was the only one left, and Tobias was about to take him from her. All the pent-up rage and despair flared, her anger bursting forth, taking hold of her, overwhelming, uncontrollable.

Her battle cry tore the air as she leapt at the man with the wrath of an amazon. Her fist collided with his face with such strength that his head reeled back, only to receive a second vicious blow. But Tobias was strong. He blocked the third one, backhanding her so strongly that she saw stars. Frances crashed upon a pillar, her back protesting at the pain that shot through her spine. She welcomed it, the agony, to keep consciousness. With a snarl he was upon her. Frances was too slow; the man too strong. She knew death when she saw it. Surprise took over when Tobias fell, his legs kicked out from under him by none other than Hannibal. Blood trickled down his mouth and hand, his stance wobbly. But Frances cared not; she would have wept with joy to see him alive still. She sent him a nod of thanks, and for the split of a second, his eyes answered his own gratitude.

Already, their mighty enemy was on his feet. It took a split of a moment for them to connect again, but very soon, they were dancing around Tobias. In perfect synchronisation, they landed blow after blow on the psychopath, leaving him no room to defend himself. Like a beautifully oiled machine, they covered their respective backs, preventing Tobias from landing any other kicks on any of them.

Frances fought like a lioness, her rage rendering her blows brutally efficient. Unrestrained, precise and destructive. Hannibal couldn't help but marvel at her skill; she was more dangerous than he was. When Tobias had blocked most of his fists – the psychopath was faster than him – he couldn't dodge hers. At last, Frances provided him with an opening, and Hannibal seized his chance by sending an uppercut into his opponent's throat. Tobias fell on his knees, choking. The young woman descended upon him like an angel of death, crushing his nape with her elbow in a show of rare brutality. Tobias fell to the ground. If his windpipe had not been crushed yet, Frances' last blow made sure he would never walk again. Panting, Hannibal's eyes met the young woman's. His mind froze, too numb to process what had just happened. Frances wiped the corner of her mouth with her sleeve before she collapsed on all fours, shocked. She had just killed a man, or maimed him without a second thought.

Hannibal was by her side in the blink of an eye, wincing at the pain shooting through his thigh where Tobias had stabbed him. Together, they dragged themselves onto shaky legs.

— "Are you all right?" he whispered, his gaze searching hers.

The bruise on her cheek had already turned an angry purple, and Hannibal refrained from touching it, fingers hovering without applying pressure. What a shame, to mar her beautiful features with such a mark. It would take weeks to fade. Frances sniffled slightly, her eyes roaming his frame worriedly.

— "Yeah. You?"

His forearm hurt where the wire had cut through the flesh, and his head and ribs pounded due to the numerous blows Tobias had landed before Frances' arrival. The worst, though, was the stab on his outer thigh. This one would scar for sure, and stung like bitch. Fortunately, his attacker was no surgeon and had missed the artery, only aiming to hurt. Overall, despite the black and blues he would sport, nothing was broken. He had been very lucky, had she not been there… She was his little god fairy.

— "I'll live. Thanks to you"

And then, fire blazed in her eyes, and her gesture surprised them both as she slapped him. None too gently, nor too harshly. But her wrath! God, it was an impressive sight, so impressive that he had to refrain from stepping back. He, Hannibal Lecter, humbled by a woman twenty years younger as her voice rose indignantly.

— "I told you to bar this fucking door, Hannibal! Damn you! I told you, and you didn't listen!"

Hannibal's heart leapt at his own admittance. Yes, he had dismissed her concerns for those of a crazy woman. Yes, he thought her stories unbelievable. Yes, he thought he was more than capable of taking care of himself. He might have prevailed, after all, right? But somehow; she had been right about the danger. How had she known? Hannibal was pretty sure he wouldn't appreciate her answer. Probably something mystical, or unbelievable once more. Still, there was only one way out of this; honesty.

— "You are right. I didn't believe you, and I am sorry."

An instant later, Frances was sobbing in his arms, her hands carefully wound around his middle as she shook from fright. Hannibal wavered on his feet, embracing her like there would be no tomorrow, his mind all over the place. She was his anchor in this very moment, the reason he lived still, and his reason to be a better man. At the door, Franklin still held her cell phone when his eyes met Hannibal's.

— "Wow," he only said.

Then he fainted.

**_If you liked it, please leave me a review. If you didn't, click the button still, and tell me why. Cheers._**


	6. Chapter 6 - A question of status

**_Hello. A big thank you to all those who reviewed. You feed my muse, as usual. I am humbled that people enjoy this as it was only meant to be a short digression. But what can I say, I don't know how to do short … blame me? _**

**_Honestly, I didn't see the end of this chapter coming. It just … kinda wrote itself this way. I am glad we get to see a little more of Hannibal, I felt I had neglected him recently :)_**

**_This is the aftermath of the mighty battle. We get to meet Will Graham... For those who read 'All Hail to the King', you probably know where this is going._**

When the FBI popped into Hannibal's office, they did not expect the scene they found. Hannibal's patient, Franklin, was sitting in the armchair, face pale, visibly shaken. Doctor Lecter himself sat at his desk, nursing a sore head and a bandaged wrist, a crimson trail running all around it. His lips were split, his gaze a little unfocused. Kneeling beside him, a young woman with a long fiery braid kept pressure on his thigh with a handkerchief, her eyes focused upon the psychiatrist. And on the floor, they found the body of Tobias, the bulky man who had, not an hour before, killed two FBI agents in cold blood and nearly disposed of Will.

Jack Crawford left his team to its work; examining the criminal in front of a very disturbed patient. The paunchy man, Franklin, would need the therapy to go through the trauma; the look in his eyes told him so. And, needless to say, that the trails of blood, and upturned furniture – all evidence of the fight – made him uneasy. This sanctuary, with its high ceiling and muffled atmosphere, was the epitome of zenitude. Seeing Dr Lecter, the ever-poised psychiatrist, bruised and battered did add some weirdness. Never before had he witnessed a single strand of hair out of place on the very impeccable Hannibal Lecter. What called him out, though, was the figure whose hand rested on the psychiatrist's thigh in a familiar gesture. As if touching him, the coldest of individuals, was the most natural thing in the world. Unattainable Hannibal Lecter, tall and proud Dr Lecter, receiving comfort from a mere girl?

— "Who is she?" he asked. "Another patient?"

Will chose this moment to penetrate the room, his head cocked aside as he took in the sight before him. No. Not a patient, there was too much closeness, too much familiarity between the two of them. Hannibal's eyes sought him out, relief flooding him.

— "I was afraid you were dead," he said.

Will nodded, still shaky from his recent encounter and brush with death. He wasn't sorry that this psychopath, Tobias, lay dead at his feet. Then his gaze returned to the young woman kneeling by Hannibal's side. Her hair was in disarray, a purple bruise marring her cheek. She had been hit, but refused the medics to come any closer. Her long flowing skirt had blood trails upon it. Will's eyes widened as he noticed her flayed knuckles; she had been fighting. Hannibal sent her a fond look, one that he had never seen upon his face, then turned to Jack.

— "No."

The doctor seemed to hesitate a moment, then pursed his lips.

— "She's my…"

— " … cat…", interrupted the young woman.

— " … companion," finished Hannibal with a mock stare.

At this, the man named Franklin actually scoffed, mumbling something about a panther. Jack sent her a startled look that probably mirrored the one on Will's face. Who referred himself willingly as a pet? And worst of all, since when Hannibal had a woman in his life? A very young woman; she might even be younger than himself.

— "Ferocious kitten you have there," Jack deadpanned.

Hannibal smirked, tugging at her hand so that she stood. Then the Doctor did the unthinkable. Something so wild, so extraordinary that Will's heat missed a beat. Hannibal rested his head upon her arm, features softening, exhaustion settling in as he refrained from slipping into oblivion. She gently caressed his messy hair, a look of pure adoration on her face. Will had to refrain from choking on his own saliva, bewildered by the gentle solace that exuded from the man. For once, Hannibal was not the one in control. And when his voice rose, eyes opening once more, it was barely above a whisper.

— "Yes, my kitten. She saved my life."

Will's eyes widened entirely.

— "You fought this man?" he asked, not even trying to tame the surprise in his own exclamation.

The young woman's eyes turned steely, her posture stiffening.

— "We both did."

And then, Will saw the warrior behind the classy exterior … the background morphed into a grassy hill swarmed with barbarians. Her features carved in stone, her jaw set, braid tucked into a leather armour. She was fighting like a demon, slicing into their army, a tall man with unruly braids by her side. Both locked in a trance, their bodies attuned to each other as they laid waste on the battle field. A deadly and unstoppable force that hacked through their enemies like a Russian tank.

The woman's voice, full of tenderness, called him from his vision.

— "Yes. He was about to kill him, I couldn't…"

— "You're lucky you're alive," Jack interrupted sternly.

Obviously, the FBI director was not aware of the devastation the woman was capable of. She was just about to retort when Franklin suddenly stood from his armchair, his shaky hand pointing at the doctor and his companion. His voice trembled as he ranted.

— "No, no, no luck there," he started, his voice trembling. "She and Dr Lecter, they were awesome together… you should have seen them, it was like a dance. A deadly dance,"

Frances addressed a bittersweet smile to Franklin before he was ushered away. Will nodded, the vision at the front of his mind before his gaze returned to her. Her eyes were glazed over, as if she remembered, also, the battlefield he's just witnessed. As if the mention of this deadly dance triggered her memories. Her hands laid on Hannibal protectively; she revolved around him, he was the centre of her world. Will frowned. If she was the woman in the vision, did it mean that Dr Lecter was the other knight? Shaggy exterior, chainmail and sword in hand… Preposterous! Will Graham doubted that it could be the same man; they couldn't be further apart. The grace of his moves, the purpose of his kills… Doubt bloomed in his mind. He had no doubt Hannibal could dance. Despite his three-piece suits, the man moved with efficient economy, unhindered by the restrictive garments. And where did that vision come from?

— "Is he dead?" the woman eventually asked.

Jack frowned.

— "Yes. Very dead"

A gasp escaped the young woman and the doctor stood on shaky legs to gather her in his arms. Damn, he looked more beaten than she was. At last, the woman muffled in the Doctor's chest.

— "I did not mean to … he was so dangerous, I only wanted to incapacitate him. I was so afraid he would hurt Hannibal again"

Dr Lecter kissed her hair gently, his show of affection entirely foreign to Will, then turned his intense gaze on Jack.

— "I count on you to consider this self-defence."

Jack Crawford took a step back, pacing for a while before he could voice his consternation.

— "Crushed windpipe…"

— "That would be me," said Hannibal, unrepentant.

— "Broken neck by a neat, precise blow to the cervical…"

This time, the young woman turned to Jack to look him in the eye. A gentle squeeze on her waist warned her to stay silent, that he would take the blame for it. She ignored him entirely, stating the truth bluntly.

— "My bad"

Hannibal wondered, once more, how Frances could feed him such tales of time travel and aliens when she seemed so direct, so honest. Her brutal admission caused the FBI director to drop his hands at his sides in a gesture of surrender. It took a sheer amount of strength to break someone's neck this way … something Jack had trouble understanding. Will, though, saw the desperation in her gaze. Like a mother protecting her children; they were known for pulling incredible feats in such dire situations. Adrenalin, they called it. Eventually, Jack pointed his meaty hand to the body.

— "This is self-defence to you?"

Frances extricated herself from Hannibal's grasp; she wanted to take responsibilities for her actions.

— "It was," she answered genuinely. "No matter how wounded, the man was unstoppable. I acted on instinct."

Jack walked up to her, towering over her frame in an attempt to intimidate her. His strength, his stance alone were impressive, but Hannibal just smirked: he knew what his kitten was cut off. She didn't bulge an inch, staring right back at Jack, daring him to make a move. Where was the young woman that shook in his arms not a moment earlier?

— "Well, you've got some pretty good guts, and technique, young lady. What do you do for a living?"

— "I teach self-defence"

This time, Will grumbled.

— "This explains a lot."

The young woman turned to him, scrutinising him. Then, a bright expression took hold of her face, something so out of place that it left him startled. Frances couldn't believe it. Galahad was here, and he hadn't changed an inch! Galahad, once more trapped in a weird relationship with Tristan, his brother of old. Clarity suddenly came to her; he could only be Will Graham, his most interesting patient. Now, instead of one, she had two of her knights back. How incredible! Her smile was genuine when she addressed him, her joy confusing him even more.

— "It is nice to meet you, Will Graham. I've heard a lot about you."

Behind them, Hannibal sent her an inquisitive look before his eyes met Will's. The FBI consultant scathing expression promised hell whenever they would meet again… in private. The young man would never believe that Frances had barged into his life less than a week prior, especially after seeing the destruction she was capable of on his behalf. This was love, fierce and deep love, and Hannibal didn't expect Will to miss its significance.

— "Well, obviously, I haven't," came Will's answer.

Frances laughed at his bluntness. Such a childish answer, so open, like his past self. Damn, if he was an empath back then, she understood why he spent so much time in the bottle in the fifth century. Her grasp on his pain – the pain of being a murderer for a cause not his own, Rome's egemony – was under evaluated at best. For the moment though, she needed to establish a bond with this skittish animal that was Will Graham.

— "I would be surprised if you had, Hannibal is not the most talkative of men. Never has, never will be. It's in his nature to be private."

Her attempt miserably failed. Visibly, Will had no recollection of her, and was wary of her exploits on the battlefield. Nodding once, he turned to Hannibal whose left hand supported his weight on the desk. Frances's heart clenched at his battered body; she needed to get him home to rest.

— "We'll talk in my next session, doctor. Whenever you can get back to work."

The former knight left after that, not even turning once.

The gnocchi were a strange comfort this evening, and for once, Frances had to navigate the kitchen by herself as doctors had strongly prohibited Hannibal from moving around. Not that he obeyed, mind you. He still found the way to extract a bottle of white wine – the very best to celebrate his life – from the basement. Her dish, albeit made with love, didn't look so appealing compared to the visual chef d'oeuvres he usually served. Frances felt self-conscious as she set the plate in front of him. Still, the openly appreciative expression on Hannibal's face as he chewed into the traditional gnocchi warmed her heart. She could see, from the slight quirk of his lips, that the taste pleased him. After a few bites in silence, Hannibal eventually set his fork down, and reached for her hand. His skin was warm on hers, a reassuring presence conveying his gratitude.

— "Thank you, Frances"

The young woman nodded, her mind still reeling from the events of the day. In truth, she was quite ready to crumble down, but Hannibal's stout presence at the dinner table kept her poised.

— "Thank you for the best gnocchi I have ever eaten. Thank you for this fantastic mushroom sauce, and thank you for saving my life"

Startled that food and his life be put at the same level, Frances's heart poured into her next words.

— "I love you" was her only answer.

He should have been startled by the emotion barely repressed, the slight trembling of her voice betraying how close she was from collapsing. But he had already come to terms with her unconditional affection. The sheer power of her blows had taught him how protective she was of him, how desperate as well. The height of absurdity, for he was the fiercest of killers. But today… today she had protected him better than herself. He didn't know why he deserved to be loved thus; somehow, he knew he did not. Still, she was there. Cooking for him a dish he had not eaten since forever to occupy her busy mind. A mind dedicated to him, and his well-being. A mind intent of keeping him safe, even when he discarded her advice.

Questions could wait; he was in no hurry to learn the truth. For the moment, he only needed a night of proper rest, bundled under the covers, with the woman who took care of him like a faithful wife. And so, standing wearily, he led Frances to bed without further ado, and held her close as she cried – from shock and relief – into his chest. Her hand came to rest upon his heart, her dedicated spot where her fingers gently played with his chestnut hair. As if, every night, she wanted to make sure that his heart continued beating. Unlike that day, fifteen hundred years ago, when it had stopped right under her palm. Or so she said. Sometimes, Hannibal wondered if her story was true, if the strange dreams that sometimes invaded his mind were of that distant past she talked about. Perhaps then, his world was not a materialist as it seemed. If God existed, though, he had a twisted sense of humour.

Six days later brought Hannibal to suit up once more. The stitches of his thigh had just been removed, the pain lessened considerably. Ribs were on the mend, muscles quite happy for they had received many massages and warm caresses those past days. Instead of erring about the house like puppets, Hannibal and Frances had used the excuse of their sorry state to spend more time in bed. Bonding, body and soul. They had been careful, of course, both of them knowing their limits, yet both quite resistant to pain. To discover their respective bodies, once more, with tenderness to prevent any wounds. To caress, kiss, and join without pressure, passion shared in the sweetest of manners. Hannibal had been appalled at the giant bruise on her back, he had kissed it from shoulder to hip with great care. It was a good therapy for her as well. Frances was still shaken, unsure of where this relationship would lead her.

Whenever they left the bed, they descended in the kitchen to cook. Hannibal shared many recipes and tricks that she absorbed. His every move, his habits, the spots he placed utensils and the way he washed them. The places he shopped, the pieces he chose at the butcher, the fish stall, the vegetables and fruits he loved and those he loathed. Frances was learning how to fit into his life. And when he gathered – from her recollection of that fated day – that she had ran all the way to his office to save him, ruining her best pair of shoes in the process, Hannibal decided she needed a car. Frances dismissed his idea; she did not possess a driving licence, for lack of time and budget. This would have to be remedied. Right after he allowed himself to be impressed by her sturdiness, and her willingness to put her life on the line for him.

She fit like a glove in his life, and Hannibal decided that never would she return to her horrible foyer. On the fifth day, as both felt much better, they gathered the little amount of her possessions and brought them to his house. And when he realised she had quite nothing to her name – and not even a real name – Hannibal decided to take her shopping. He dragged her into his favourite boutiques, buying outfits, underwear, shoes which price tag was fortunately not displayed. She deserved the best, but still shied away, telling him how she felt like 'pretty woman'. Hannibal dismissed her concerns. Money he had aplenty, for both of them.

— "Money only is an issue if you make it so, Frances," he told her, kissing her hands in a display of genuine affection.

He never thought he could feel it; such an unguarded emotion for another. She called the best in him, this woman. And he was proud to call her his.

So when time came for him to get back to work, and he secured the vest of his suit upon his shoulder without wincing – a little victory – there was only one solution in his mind. Hannibal turned to the young woman; anxiety was written all over her face at the idea to let him go once more.

— "We will invite Jack for dinner, and his wife. Will and Alana as well. Now that you are part of my life, it is only normal to present you as such. Formally"

Protocol at its best. Frances frowned, her worried glance turning to puzzlement as she wondered about the title she should sport.

— "As such?"

A smirk adorned his lips, still slightly swollen from her morning ministrations. He had to admit that finding an eager and warm body next to him every single morning was something he was looking forward to.

— "My wife, if you so wish."

Frances swallowed; uneasiness written over her features as a rosy hue crept to her cheeks. Was this even real? Would she be lucky enough to have this handsome and magnetic man as a husband? Not that he could possibly be in a relationship with many women, given his occupations. But still, with his charm and poise, she didn't doubt he could land any female he fancied. Was he ready though, to have her permanently so quickly?

— "Are you sure, Hannibal?"

Ah, she was worried about him once more. Doubts needed to be put to rest. The psychiatrist checked the knot of his tie one more time in the mirror before sitting on the edge of the bed, reaching for her hand.

— "Well. Since it is out of the question that you return in this horrible place you used to live in, and decided to attach yourself to me should you die in the process, I think you deserve the title"

A full smile bloomed on her face, and with the haphazard sunrays that filtered through his curtains, she looked beautiful. A lovely maiden, for an old – if very fit – man. Yet, he couldn't bring himself to regret it, to regret her presence in his life. The doors she opened, the emotions she created, none of it could compare to his old, solitary life. Perhaps he was incapable of love; he certainly wasn't about to propose, one knee planted in the ground like a knight of old, with a shiny jewel and profess his undying love. But something was stirring within him. The need to care for her. As his wife, she would be protected from the world, never to be cast away once more. If he died, or was discovered, she wouldn't be left in the streets. If he got caught, she would be exposed to the likes of Freddie Lounds. One more reason for him to behave.

— "I would be honoured," she said, grabbing his neck to kiss him.

Hannibal let her tongue linger on his lips, his own fingers grazing at her cheeks in a tender gesture before he gave her a cheeky smile.

— "And it would give you a real surname."

— "That too"


	7. Chapter 7 - Will Graham's gift

1\. Will Graham's Gift

**_Ah Koba, I didn't realise you had not read that one. The chapters are short, though, because I didn't intend it to go too far _********_ It will be a short fic, 40k at worst I guess. It is funny to see that Hannibal thinks Frances delusional, he is a psychiatrist after all. But he knows of his shortcomings as well, and for once, it feels nice to be accepted. Monster and all. As for Will … more of him in this chapter._**

Jack Crawford couldn't help who he was, nor could he quell the feeling, deep inside of him, that screamed of dark secrets whenever he watched Frances' face. Nor the subdued presence of his wife, Bella – she was awfully quiet those days – neither the delicious food could take him away from his thoughts.

The little research about the young woman gave surprising results, even when he crossed referenced all databases. Frances, as per Hannibal's formal presentation, had only existed for a year. Popping up, unconscious, in an abandoned warehouse out of nowhere, with no memory whatsoever of her name and history at the time. No driving licence, no ID, one matching her face in the missing files. The air force had paid a visit to her hospital room; there was no recording of what was said. Classified, probably. Why would the airforce visit a 23-year-old amnesiac? After the lady's little stunt, crushing Tobias' spine like a cracker, he wondered what this woman was really made of. But none of his sources could fish out any reliable information about her. Frances just was. And even more surprising, she now lived beside the most guarded and secretive psychiatrist he'd ever met.

Frances talked liked a woman in full possession of her memories, behaved with assurance and poise. As if she'd fought a thousand battles, as if nothing could destabilise her, as if she'd accepted death many times over. Despite her youth, her hazel eyes held the unmistakable glint that many FBI agents sported. There was no doubt in his mind about the hardships she'd faced; death and loss, for sure. At first, he had judged the age difference of this strange couple, passion and coldness expressed in both of them. But now, as he witnessed their subtle interaction laced with affection, he didn't fear Hannibal's domination over the young woman. Even if she regarded him like a miracle, her esteem obvious in the little gesture they shared, she was no woman to be trampled over, even by an intimidating figure. For Doctor Lecter definitely was one of those people that could send anyone to their knees with a look.

Her accent was peculiar. Less pronounced that Dr Lecter's, even if she fumbled for words sometimes. He couldn't place it, though, until she asked for a translation in French, one that Hannibal was only too happy to oblige with a fond smile. Never had he seen such warmth in his manners, albeit the corner of his lips barely twitched when he addressed her. But Jack could see, as plain as day, the beaming smile she addressed him as he provided the correct word. The restraint of his manners did not fool her; she could see right through his armour and bask in the affection he barely expressed. As if they had known each other for years. Dr Lecter's mastery of the French language surprised him though, until he remembered he had started medical school in France. This only deepened his respect for the man. Medicine classes were famous for their selectivity in Paris. Still, he wondered why her accent didn't point to the country. French people were usually more than obvious when it came to their poor English.

— "Are you French, Frances?" he eventually asked.

The young woman addressed him a sad smile, an emotion he couldn't place upon her features.

— "I was."

Then her eyes darted to Will, again. The attempt at contact was once more pushed away by the consultant. Jack wondered at the strange dynamic between those two. She seeking his presence, and he pushing back with all his might. Mysteries surrounded this woman like a shroud would a dead. It had, so far, been the third direct question he addressed her. Each time, the same pattern; short answers, providing no information whatsoever. Either she was a master at hiding things, either she wasn't a great conversationalist. Somehow, he doubted it, because she was quite soon engaged into a nice recollection of Florence with Bella. Had she given up on Will, picking up a lifeline from Bella's Italian name ? Doctor Lecter was a European through and through. It only seemed normal that they would find each other.

In front of him, Will was mainly silent. Fascinated by the young woman, almost in a trance, but fleeing her attempts at eye contact. Jack wondered if he was trying to use his gift of empathy to pierce her secrets. But Alana Bloom, seated beside him, couldn't quite quell her curiosity at the peculiar response. Maybe he should let her do the prodding; a young woman might be more open with Alana than with him.

— "It's the first time I hear someone speak of a nationality in the past tense. Why 'was'?" she eventually asked.

Frances turned to the brunette woman, sizing her up before responding. She seemed genuine, if a little disgruntled that Hannibal – her mentor – had found a companion. Perhaps her age didn't sit well with her; Alana Bloom probably was slightly older than she was. Her question, though, called forth memories she'd rather forget.

— "I was found with no memory and no family. My surname is not my own, hence my ID states my citizenship to be the US."

— "Couldn't you apply for double nationality like Doctor Lecter?"

How ironic, that Hannibal actually held the French nationality when she didn't.

— "I am afraid that beside speaking French, there is no recollection of me anywhere. Getting a birth certificate would be difficult"

With a quick glance across, she met Hannibal's troubled gaze. He had searched as well, phoning the village she was born – bless his French! – , looking for addresses where she was supposed to live. Some matched, like the ones of her childhood friends and the name of the preschool teacher. Even the phone numbers did, they were listed in the white pages. Her own neighbours, with their five sons, their age, their name. All of it was true, he'd called them personally. But her own house had never been built, and she didn't exist in the registers. How could she describe it with so much detail if she wasn't born there? For her knowledge of the area – Lyon and its countryside – was as extensive as his recollection of the Essonne estate his uncle had lived in. Still, he couldn't believe in her weird story of time travel and aliens. The solution had escaped him until now, but he would meet the challenge head on.

Frances addressed him a tentative smile, one that didn't quite reach her eyes. He knew his scepticism hurt her feelings, but there was nothing else he could do. Feeding her delusion could only lead to a breakdown. And when her eyes turned back to Alana, he saw the mask slip back into place. It was too late to hide from Will, though, for the expression on his face sold him out. Pale, almost shaking, Hannibal knew that Will had seen something. What could it be?

— "It doesn't matter though," added Frances. "I know who I am."

— "And who are you?"

Jack's interjection was met with a disapproving stare from his wife. Hannibal straightened in his chair, a strange feeling stirring inside his chest. Protectiveness. Even if he didn't know who Frances was, and how she had unmasked him, she was his puzzle to solve. Not anyone else. She belonged to him, period, and he would protect her no matter what. If she died, it would be by his hand. Hannibal's lips pursed; his hopes that Jack Crawford would steer away from Frances, as she was under his protection, were crushed. But the psychiatrist had more than one string to his bow, and many more contingency plans than humanly possible. Frances was his, now. His to protect, his to cherish, his to care for. So his amber eyes turned to Jack, his gaze hard, and he could see the shiver the tall man repressed under the weight of it.

— "Are you, by any means, investigating my future wife, Jack?"

The jab aimed true, for as soon as his words passed his lips, gushing from the female company rose in the dining room, and the rest of the evening passed pleasantly in talks of weddings and other romantic nonsense that caused Frances' eye to twinkle. Although she responded in kind, he knew she kept an ear on her conversation with Jack. 'Well played,' her hazel eyes told him, the semi smile gracing her rosy lips for a moment before she turned her attention back to Alana Bloom.

When Jack and Bella Crawford left, she and Frances were on very friendly terms. A promise to spend more time together was sealed with the exchange of phone numbers, and Hannibal couldn't help but notice the absence of anguish he felt at that. Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer still. He should have felt wary, to know that Frances was going to talk to Jack's wife more often. Yet, he was surprised to trust her to keep his secret. She had, after all, many more of her own about her origins. Whichever they may be.

When Alana insisted on helping him with the dishes, Hannibal took advantage of her offer to prod her feelings about Frances' intrusion in his life, leaving his lady and Will behind. He wondered if the young woman would be able to penetrate his thick armour, to pass his walls as easily as she had sent his crumbling. For the moment though, Alana's very thorough interrogation called his attention fully. She young woman asked the right questions, and there was only so much he could dodge in front of a well trained psychiatrist. It was lucky that his own training, his cunning and his manipulative mind knew how to lead Alana on the path he wanted.

The living room was quiet, Will Graham's eyes firmly set on her face, his breathing a little too shallow for her taste. The man was hyperventilating, feeling trapped. Frances stood, extending her hand in the less threatening gesture she could muster. Where Hannibal could be overbearing, Frances knew how to assume a very open posture.

— "Come, Will Graham. I would like to talk to you."

Like a wounded animal, Will took him time, watching her hand, then the expression on her face, before he accepted to touch her. Her fingers enclosed his gently, tugging slightly to lead him to the sofa in the living room. Frances had to refrain from performing a giddy dance. This little link was enough to send an ache through her heart, the memories of her hands roaming Galahad's locks when he slept, passed out on the tavern's table. The young knight certainly enjoyed contact more than Will.

Will Graham was as wounded, as uncertain as Galahad had been, and it would take a mother's touch to get him our of there. At last, Frances gently seated him, and settled in front, releasing his hand. Nor too close, nor too far, for she drank in his features like a parched woman. Hannibal had explained, in few words, that Will was not at ease with strangers and suffered a pathological shyness. But she was no stranger.

— "Will. I have heard that you sometimes see things."

The mention of his job tensed his shoulders, but it was a well-known subject that called a rehearsed response. His blueish gaze was locked on the fire as he answered truthfully.

— "Yes, I do. Things I would rather not see, but they help investigations."

Frances nodded, genuine warmth pouring out of her eyes. The fact that he would submit himself to such hardship to save lives called for her respect and admiration.

— "It is very courageous of you, I admire what you do."

— "There is nothing to admire, I assure you"

There is was, this self-loathing she never thought she would hear again. what a pity, than even there, even released from his oath to Rome, Will would be once more trapped in a duty that destroyed him.

— "It is my job," he shrugged.

What an oyster! He extended no lifeline for her to grab, his mind firmly perched into his dungeon. Sighing, Frances decided to take a different approach. Bluntness.

— "Do you sometimes have visions either than on a crime scene?"

Will's clear eyes snapped to hers, his whole body coiled. Yet, he said nothing. Frances swallowed. Make or break.

— "Is there any way you remember me, in a different setting?" she coaxed.

What a poker move. If he didn't, like Hannibal, she would definitely be categorised nuts and there would be no retreating. But she needed to know. Her heart thundered below her silk blouse, hoping to all gods that the looks he'd stolen all evening had something to do with his abilities.

— "What kind of setting?"

Frances took a shuddering breath.

— "Medieval. In the tavern, on horseback … or on a battlefield"

An incredulous smile suddenly bloomed on his face and his hand passed before his eyes. Relief flooded his features as he exclaimed:

— "I thought I was going crazy!"

Frances watched him incredulously, the genuine, unguarded expression of his face so alike Galahad that tears came to her eyes. And then, she couldn't take it anymore and jumped to his side of the sofa to hug him fiercely. Will tensed instantly, but the odd familiarity of the contact called something deep within him. As if, after so many years of treading a path alone, he had found a familiar thing. Something to anchor him in this crazy life. And the genuine happiness that poured out of her, her shaking silhouette crushing him to her chest, this was as authentic as the sun rising. Dumbfounded, Will Graham allowed relief to wash over him and quell his fears. At last the very proper woman – or so he thought – let him go. But her eyes still shone with unshed tears, and he couldn't make sense of it.

— "There was a man beside you, a tall fighter", he continued, his hands rising as he spoke.

— "A knight. Tristan. Did you recognise him?"

Will racked his brain for a moment, remembering the long limbs, the fluidity of the knight's moves and the purpose of his blows.

— "Is he …?"

Frances nodded.

— "Yes, Hannibal"

Will's lips formed a perfect 'O'. Hannibal, a middle-age knight. That was so preposterous that he should have aughed until his lungs couldn't take it anymore. But Franklin's words flowed through his memory as he described Frances and Hannibal's fighting. A deadly dance, he had called it. The same deadly dance he had seen on the battlefield.

— "What did I see?" he asked.

— "Describe it to me"

Frowning, Will Graham tried to get a clear image of the visions that had plagued him each time he concentrated on her. There wasn't much to work with, but he couldn't push from his the tall knight as he fought beside the young fury. His clear eyes lost their focus for a moment, their colour slightly green in the dim light.

— "It was fuzzy. Just a man, and you, fighting together in a middle age armour. Your enemies are mostly blond, some don't have helmets."

A sharp intake of breath answered this statement, the memory still fresh in Frances' mind. The dreadful fight had only occurred a year prior for her.

— "The battle of Badon Hill," she breathed out.

Mistaking her shallow breaths for awe, Will instantly apologised.

— "I'm sorry, history is not my cup of tea, I have no idea when or where it was."

The young woman fidgeted in her seat, settling her long skirt around herself to calm her racing heart. One slow exhale was all it took for her to meet his gaze again.

— "You saw the battle of Badon Hill, the day Arthur Castus, also known as King Arthur, kicked the Saxon's hides beside Hadrian's wall, in England. The year was 476 AD"

Will's eyebrows nearly fled his forehead.

— "King Arthur?"

— "Himself. He used to be a Roman commander, Artorius Castus"

The FBI consultant reclined in the sofa, trying to grasp all the loose lines that kept coming. The more questions she answered, the more popped up. His mind reeled, implications running so fast that he quite forgot how to breathe. Will shook himself mentally; he needed to focus.

— "All right. So I'm seeing King Arthur's knights in a vision. How can you be so sure? Where does this come from? And what are you doing here? I mean, in this vision?"

Frances' hazel eyes bore holes into his, her features set in stone as she evaluated what he could take. Will Graham was a skittish animal ready to make a run for it. Could she turn back now that he had seen her? Could she tell him that she was also reincarnated? Or speak about the Keeper of Time? What about the fact that she was a clone? The young woman frowned slightly; she would cross that bridge when needed. Not now. First, she needed for him to accept the concept of past lives…

— "I think those are memories."

— "Memories?"

The young woman nodded anew, nibbling at her lower lip.

— "Galahad's memories"

— "How? What does this have to do with Galahad?"

His tone was clipped; the conversation could slide out of her control anytime now. Frances felt like an equilibrist, walking a very fine line on the bridge of Khazad-Dûm. Hopefully, no Balrog should show up and burn her to a crisp … unless Hannibal disapproved of her speaking to Will about such things.

— "Uh, it's a long story. One for which my husband might consider me delusional."

Will scoffed openly; there was obviously no love lost between Will and Hannibal. The relationship of admiration and hate between Galahad and Tristan had been so alike that her heart ached. For she knew that deep down, despite his curiosity and twisted mind, Hannibal looked out for Will.

— "Well, that will make two of us. Tell me about Galahad"

Frances addressed him a fond smile, images of the pup – Galahad's nickname at the time –popping into her mind. This adventure was so fresh, so recent – one year and a half – that the image of the young knight, Sarmatian bow in hand, was still vivid. She missed him, he had reached for her instantly in the fifth century. But before she could even start her recollection, a smooth voice echoed in the living room; Hannibal stood in the doorway holding a tea tray.

— "Of everything you could have breached, I didn't think you were interested in the lores of the round table, Will."

Frances pursed her lips; even if Hannibal refused to acknowledge it, his habit of moving around silently strongly reminded her of Tristan. The scout had the ability to surprise anyone.

— "I am not, but your wife is," he answered innocently.

Alana Bloom, trailing behind, settled on an armchair in front of Will. There went their discussion about Galahad. As the psychiatrist gently set the tray down, he gave Frances an interrogative glance laden with questions. In front of her, Alana lifted a perfect eyebrow, sensing the sudden tension in the room. And even if Will and Frances refused to dwell on their previous subject – stating it didn't matter much – Alana couldn't help but notice that her friend had overcome his shyness and now conversed rather easily with Hannibal's future wife. To see Will warm up to a foreigner, a stranger to his habits gave her hope that maybe he was not as unstable as she thought.

When Will and Alana left this very evening, thanking Dr Lecter profusely for dinner, they had no idea that a heavy discussion ensued their departure. Hannibal was none too happy, but Frances met his disagreement without flinching. His smooth voice never rose, but she could feel the anger burning through every single fibre of his being. And for once, she thanked God she had faced Tristan's wrath, a year and half before this, to prepare her for this very moment. For her body trembled from the strain of holding her ground against such a formidable opponent. Her husband to ben the man she loved and feared equally.

— "It is needless to say how disappointed I am that you dared dragging Will into those fantasies. He is barely stable, and prone to be swayed," he said, folding his apron neatly after cleaning the kitchen.

Fantasies. The words cut deep, but Frances barely flinched. She would cry about his lack of trust later. For now, she only straightened, lifting her gaze to meet his greying eyes squarely.

— "He knows who I am. And who you have been," she said.

Hannibal's hands spread on the counter, shifting his weight forward to invade her personal space. His features were set, his face betraying nothing as he scolded her.

— "Frances. You cannot drag him into this. I cannot allow you to impair his mental health any further."

— "I do not drag him into anything. Will has seen us, in a vision. You and me fighting at the battle of Badon Hill"

Hannibal's nonexistent eyebrows rose at that; of all excuses he expected, this one diwasn't on the list. Seizing the opportunity, Frances pleaded her case. Her fingers grazed his, still spread against the cold kitchen counter, warm skin causing his to tingle.

— "I know you don't believe me, Hannibal. It hurts, but I don't blame you, this is way outside your zone of comfort. But Will has seen things that cannot be explained rationally and he wants to know."

— "Are you sure you haven't influenced him? Will can pick up the smallest of details and let his imagination run wild."

Frances sighed, hurt once more by the accusation. She took a step backwards, the loss of contact as uncomfortable for her than it was for him. Suddenly, she only wanted to shed her blouse and long skirt and roll herself away in a comforter, eating chocolate. Or ice cream. No, hot chocolate, the Spanish way, would do the trick.

— "I've been careful with his mind, as you have told me. He said he had visions when we first met. I only asked what he had seen."

Hannibal retreated to the sink, washing a pair of crystal glasses as he processed that information. Back ramrod straight, arms barely moving, all economy of movements; he was every inch the predator she knew him to be. Frances did not move an inch, awaiting his verdict. At last, he set the glasses down to dry, and turned back to her, his posture slightly more relaxed.

— "So this is what he was doing during dinner. I had an inkling, but wasn't entirely sure."

— "He went into some sort of trance. I guess," Frances confirmed.

Then, all possibilities started running into Hannibal's mind, none satisfying his rational brain. But the dialogue was open again, and he couldn't help but notice that Frances's breaths were less shallow now. She absently rubbed a spot over her left clavicle, as if in pain. He had seen no scar up there, but it wasn't the first time he witnessed this nervous gesture. Was he the cause of that ? Hannibal decided to focus on the present, and store this information for later.

— "How is this even possible, Frances? How could he even see you?"

— "And Tristan?"

There was a pain in her chest each time she pronounced that name, a glint of sadness in her eyes, hidden behind the mask whenever she mentioned the battle of Badon Hill. Could it be possible? No. She was delusional. A careful construction of her mind to fill in the blanks of her amnesia. One day, it would all come crashing down. Never before had Hannibal encountered such an elaborate, consistent construction, but one day… He would be here for her whenever she remembered the plain, ugly truth. For the moment though, he needed to sort out what Will Graham had truly seen.

— "Yes. How could Will possibly gain images out of your mind?"

Frances gave him a lopsided smile, an expression that spoke of emotional exhaustion.

— "Easy peasy, darling. They do not initiate from my mind. Will Graham was a knight of the round table. I recognised him the day he walked into your office; he resembles him so acutely, even more than you look alike Tristan. He was the pup of the brotherhood, and your relationship back them was uneasy. It seems like you are back at the same point, maybe to mend it. Who knows how those things work…"

Hannibal's brain short circuited a that, and words passed his lips without warning.

— "Galahad"

_**So, even if Hannibal refuses the possibility, his subconscious won't give him a choice. Let's see how obstinate our favourite cannibal can be. And I'm glad Frances gets to interact with Will. Hopefully they can be each other's anchor.**_


	8. Chapter 8 - Hypnosis

**_Hya there. I see this story is gathering a few more reads, probably because it is not so short anymore. For those who never left a word (hence, whose existence I cannot acknowledge at all), please leave me a review to tell me what you think. I see I have 7 people following now, so let me now who you are :) I love all my readers, and I don't bite but it is always difficult to not know what people like or dislike whenever I try to post a new chapter. To my faithful followers, you know how much I love you ! Cheers_**

Hannibal still had trouble wrapping his mind around the concept. But what Will wanted, the psychiatrist granted … especially since his wife was adamant that they try it. And his curiosity asked for answers. The name Galahad had even sputtered from his own mouth like a spark from his subconscious. Now was the time to challenge Frances' story; would it resist his insistent probing? Crack under pressure? Despite the hundreds of surreptitious questions he had thrown her way, he never caught her off guard. Her incredible story was consistent through and through.

Frances' presence behind him was nearly forgotten – not entirely – as his smooth voice guided Will into the deep state of hypnosis, plunging his patient to the very depth of his inner self. It was always magnificent; the way Will responded to his voice, trusting him to guide him on the way to his very core. A core he feared because of his empathy disorder. Hannibal almost sneered at the diagnostic. A disorder. How could anyone label the pure, complete bound Will could summon as a disorder? He that always kept his own empathy on a tight lid, calling it scarcely, then securing it away for fear of burning himself once more. A lifetime habit that Frances gnawed at slowly, but surely.

And before he allowed her to crawl under his skin, Hannibal needed to assess her mental health, to decide whether this woman he was willing to call wife could be a danger to him, to his tight shell. Whether he could allow his feelings to develop, or shut her out of his heart entirely. Whether the leak he was about to allow would drown him entirely.

Will's face contorted, as if in pain. His hand gripped the sides of his armchair tightly, and his breathing came more laboured. Behind him, he could feel Frances' worried glances. Will had insisted for her presence, something he was not so happy about. But she swore to remain silent, and not interfere. Thus, he could barely hear her breathing. Hannibal spoke to Will softly, telling him he wasn't alone that he was safe. Asking him to recount whatever he was seeing now. The answer was more than what he bargained for.

— "I am riding, hard, in the icy rain with twenty other men. I am young, the youngest, and the man beside me looks out for me regularly. We are not brothers, but it feels like it."

— "Describe this man to me."

— "His hair is long, tawny, with tangles. Blue eyes, a blond beard. He wears some kind or armour. So do I, but my legs are bare under the chainmail. I have a … a skirt of sort, with metal danglings. Our commander is at the front, a heavy sword in his hands"

Hannibal rested his elbows on his thighs, crossing his hand in front of his chin. Still unconvinced. But not entirely … for the image of a hawk suddenly popped in his mind, and with the magnificent bird, warmth spread in his chest. But now Will's breathing was getting more laboured, as if his lungs constricted. His voice quivered.

— "I am on a hill. My armour is heavy, my brother wears a funny-looking helmet with plates that fans around his neck. There is smoke, dark smoke, it hurts my lungs, I…"

Hannibal needed to ground him before a panic crisis took hold of his patient, and he started a mantra in a low, soothing voice.

— "Breath, Will. Remember you are safe, here. Take a moment, breathe in slowly, and out. In, and out…"

Will released a shuddering breath, his knuckles white on the armchair. But he refused to relent, and started describing again what could only be a gruesome battlefield. He was slicing though enemies, his arrows spent, his horse let loose on the battlefield to try to reach his brother who had taken a nasty blow to the side. His arms were sore, his body battered, but the rage building inside his chest kept him alert. The smoke burnt his lungs, acrid, its smell mixed with that of blood, sweat and horrid fluids. And then, he saw her. The Keeper of Time.

— "For a short moment, I can only watch them as they dance. I know I should be more cautious, I know I should be checking my surroundings. It is only a matter of time before I get hit. But I can't stray my eyes off them. She is as agile as he is; Tristan, my brother, unmatched on the battle field. He is slicing through enemies like a knife through butter. And she, she dances around him, with him, and they go back and forth like the wrath of God unleashed on the Saxons. There are no words to describe what I see, they are so attuned to each other that she sometimes hits a man that Tristan finishes, and vice versa. But I have no time, more enemies are coming, I need to fight again, I need to defend my life,"

Hannibal had stopped taking notes, his whole being suspended to Will Graham's visions. His while body was coiled, ready to spring from his seat, the atmosphere of the battle permeating through him. He, the mighty, coldest detached bastard of all humanity, couldn't prevent the stress of the battle to wash through his own body. Did it come from Will? Or within? Hannibal didn't know anymore, for he, too, was experiencing glimpses. Not visions, no, but the rush of the battle, the anxiety of protecting Frances, the cold analysis of the battlefield. And this man, the chef … the cold-hearted bastard that wanted her! That blasted Saxon!

Hannibal started. Those thoughts didn't belong to him, and he needed to keep his façade and walls in place. It was just his empathy towards Will affecting him. So when at last, Will spoke again, Hannibal though he was ready to take in whatever he was going to describe. How incredibly wrong he was, for very soon, Will started tearing up. Fascinated, the psychiatrist watched and his hands clenched and unclenched, throat constricted, until words started to drip one by one.

— "Tristan is dying … his blood keeps flowing, his arm is stabbed by a dagger. The woman had crawled by his side… A bolt protrudes through her collarbone. I feel for her, I like her, this sister. And she is so badly shattered that I want to cry. I can hardly look at it."

And Will Graham plunged once more into the recesses of his mind to paint the gruesome picture of the battle of Badon Hill, wondering all the way how he could summon such details. The smell of the fight, the clashes of swords, the cries of dying men and horses. Her contorted face, pain written plainly, collarbone a mess of bones and torn flesh, helmet discarded. And Tristan's pale face as his hand barely managed to caress her cheek. Tristan's features, tattooed cheekbones and full lips, the most typical and recognisable face he had ever seen. Hannibal's! Those traits, there were Hannibal's! He needed to tell him, tell his friend the indefectible bond he had shared with Frances. For she had been there, by his side, as he died. A true friend, the love of one's life.

— "I didn't understand Hannibal… I didn't understand why she clung to Tristan until now. Why she clung to you. But now I do … her pain…"

A sob escaped William, and he buried his face into his hands for a moment. Silence reigned supreme in the office, plush carpets and tall bookshelves the only testimonies of this difficult moment shared between friends. Tear tracks still smeared his cheeks, but Will continued nonetheless.

— "Her pain … is crippling. But her hand rests upon his heart until he dies. I see the light leave his eyes. I ache everywhere, but my heart is ripped apart. I am losing another brother, and she … she makes it all too real. She doesn't yell, doesn't scream. She only weeps, her tears fall upon his face, then she collapses from the pain or her own blood loss. I am afraid she will die too, our little Frances. She cannot die too! Her red hair falls upon both of them, it shields them in a cocoon alike to death. Then I know the battle is over, and I fall to my knees, praying to all the Gods that Frances would live to see another day"

Frozen in place, Hannibal waited for more words, but none came. Frances. And him? For a moment, he felt the tears gracing his cheeks, the sensation of salty droplets sliding through his beard – how he hated having a beard, he never sported one – his lifeforce ebbing away, pooling into the earth, and her warm blood upon his arm. Impossible. This was impossible! Plainly, and truthfully impossible. The psychiatrist needed to call his patient back before he experienced a seizure. A single glance behind him clenched his heart painfully. Frances had not moved nor made a sound, but tears ran steadily on her face, like two streams trying to drown themselves into the sea. Hands clasped together, she breathed slowly to prevent from sobbing, keeping her word to remain silent. The hurt she radiated was painful to watch, too painful. Had she reconvened her story with William? Were they lying to him? Abusing his nonexistent credulity? To what end?

Slowly, methodically, Hannibal recalled William from his trance. And when he opened his clear blue eyes to meet his, there was a different gleam than when he had closed them.

— "Hannibal. That dying man, Tristan. It was you. Your face"

— "It is not impossible that you might have plastered the face of known people onto the visions you had, Will."

His young patient harrumphed, lifting his arms to the sky at his stubbornness. But when his eyes shifted to the lone woman weeping behind him, William jumped to his feet. His arms opened, and she literally flew into him for a desperate hug. Her sobs increased tenfold, as if all the sorrows of her life were released in this very moment. Her whole form was shaking, and it crushed him to hear such pain, such raw anguish extracted from the strong woman who had saved his life. And Will Graham, the man who fled eye and physical contact altogether, crushed her into a tight embrace like he was a long-life friend. His reservations forgotten; his walls shattered.

It as a bittersweet sight for Hannibal. Until then, Frances had shown no weakness to him, taking things in stride and submitting her way of life to his very demands. Malleable, yet partially dead. But then, he just saw the spark of life rekindled, and he wasn't the one able to do it. At last, her sobs subsided, and Will took her face between his hands.

— "I am glad to see you again, Frances."

— "Galahad," she whispered. "Galahad, you have no idea how I missed you."

She had no need to tell him what he had seen; Will was quite aware that his vision was one of his past self. And for the moment, it shook his foundations so badly that he didn't even think about asking her how she remembered so much. No. Questions would arise in time, when his mind settled, and his brain took over. So when Will left this evening, badly shaken, it felt like a new world had just opened up to him. He had secured a promise from Frances, that if she didn't feel up to telling him everything she knew, that she would do the next best thing and write it.

Hannibal was satisfied with their deal, for he would be the first one to read her manuscript. Maybe it could trigger something buried deep within himself. Or maybe not. The psychiatrist was still at loss about what to believe, and when he closed the door, he wasn't expecting Frances' next words.

— "I have visions of the future, Hannibal. Dreams, sometimes, or hunches. The day you were attacked, I knew it was coming. I saw Franklin, dead and bloodied. And your hand, on the floor with this horrible wire around it… This is why I was the Keeper of Time."

— "What do you mean?"

Her gaze was intense, sparkling, as if she was just picking up something important.

— "I thought, at first, that the Valar sent me those visions so I could complete those missions. But I understand now I was wrong. It is my nature. This is why they choose me, not the other way around."

Hannibal nodded, for what could he say? This whole thing was just too crazy for his mind to wrap around it. She spoke of Gods from another planet, of aliens and prescience. This last bit, though, was the closest he could probably accept, for he had racked his brain day and night to understand how Frances had possibly gathered that Tobias would try to kill him this very night. Nothing logical had come forth, leaving him bereft … and almost ready to believe in the paranormal.

— "What William has seen in the battle of Badon Hill. Year 472. Britain. Not my first, but my last battle. I have killed more people than you have, Hannibal. Much, much more. In Interpol, as a trainee with SG1, and in the past. The last one, Tobias, because he would have killed you. And even if I am not proud of it, I won't drown in the guilt because those death were necessary to other's survival. My only regret is that I couldn't save you. I won't lose you in this life, Hannibal. I can't lose you"

A surge of jealousy suddenly tickled his usual poise, and the words were almost bitter as he said:

— "What about Will?"

Frances' eyebrows rose on her forehead, genuinely surprised by the harshness of his comment. It was too late to backtrack, and Hannibal fought tooth and nail the rage that threatened to overwhelm his common sense. Did it matter so much that she might love another? He had, after all, not declared his feelings, for he couldn't make heads or tails of it at the moment. Frances was free to go. But somehow, the single idea that she might choose another man, one more suited to her tastes, one with the sense of empathy and the will to use it, one that wasn't a cold-hearted killer … it didn't sit right by him. Truthfully, it even twisted his insides. 'Mine,' screamed his torn mind. 'Mine,' like a possessive wolf.

— "What about him?" she asked warily.

Hannibal didn't meet her eyes this time.

— "What was he to you?"

Understanding suddenly flowed her features, as if the reason of his coldness suddenly made sense. Her hand came to rest upon his forearm, her lips kissing his temple gently. Hannibal closed his eyes, awaiting the dreaded answer while his skin relished in the softness of her lingering lips. He could never admit how much he enjoyed her contact; he that only praised the betterment of the mind. He had never been one for physicality; now he realised he was becoming addicted to the comfort she provided.

— "He was a friend, a brother in arms and a son."

Silence descended, its heavy blanket swallowing his office whose only light was the flame of the fireplace. Hesitantly, the young woman climbed into his lap, her head settling on his shoulder. Hannibal tightened his hold over her slender frame, marvelling that she would choose him. For a while, all was quiet in Hannibal's office, the only noise the crackling of burnt wood and the muffled sounds of cars passing in the street. Frances' lips travelled to his neck, gently nibbling his skin as she took in his subtle scent. Her soft breath fanned upon the collar of his shirt, her hands loosely clasped around his shoulders, and for a moment, all was well in the world. Until she suddenly straightened.

— "Will smells funny. Do you think he might be sick?"

Shocked, Hannibal addressed her an impressed look.

— "I didn't expect anyone but myself to pick up on it too."

His subtle praise called colours to her cheeks, and he wasn't fooled when she only shrugged. For she wouldn't speak of Lord Elrond and Aragorn's tutelage – sometimes in the wild, smell was the only way to indicate injury – not when Hannibal had such a hard time accepting about his past life. But her latest hug with Will had given her plenty of time to wonder. Something was off.

— "Sensitive smell. I can't tell you how difficult the fifth century was in that account. Everything just stunk, from food to blankets."

— "I can only imagine"

Yes. Imagine. For he could not believe yet. Still … she had picked up on William's irregular scent, and correctly interpreted it.

— "So should we take him to the doctor? A specialist? What do you suspect?"

— "A neurologist would be the right one to go to."

There was caution and restraint in his words, some underlying meaning that made ants crawl up her spine. Slowly, but surely, Frances untangled her limbs from the psychiatrist and came to kneel before him, her long fingers intertwining with his. Hannibal's eyes were guarded, the amber more pronounced as flames danced in his eyes. Sometimes, he looked alike to a vengeful angel, bringing misery to mankind. Shaking the image off, Frances resumed her line of thinking.

— "Well, what's the procedure? Is Will aware that he might be sick?"

— "There is nothing certain as of now," came his smooth voice, carefully controlled.

— "Then we need to make sure. Don't you think his symptoms could be related to this illness?"

— "How much do you know about his symptoms, Frances?"

Could this interrogation get any colder? The young woman left Hannibal's hand, a shiver shaking her shoulders as she stood up to get closer to the fireplace.

— "Only what he told me, which is not a lot. But it might just worsen, or get better on its own depending on what you have in mind"

Silence greeted her words, and for a moment, she wondered if the psychiatrist would ever answer her implicit question.

— "Encephalitis"

— "Inflammation of the brain"

Hannibal nodded, pleased that the young woman retained some medical knowledge from her enhanced biology classes.

— "Yes. An autoimmune disease or a viral reactivation"

Some knowledge, all right, but she wasn't a doctor. And there, Frances admitted to be out of her depth. Where she could grasp the logic, she lacked the basics of medical school to be able to go further.

— "I am unfamiliar with this one. So is there any way to pinpoint the primary cause?"

— "An MRI might confirm the diagnosis. Blood tests would show an elevated number of antibodies or a response to infection."

Her deep chocolate eyes reflected the flames, the reddish strands seemingly on fire in the orange glow. Hannibal stood, the need to caress her silky hair too strong to resist. And while she frowned, thinking heavily, his long fingers buried themselves in the long strands of her fiery hair.

— "White blood count?"

— "Yes"

The psychiatrist's towering frame engulfed her slender one, hiding the light entirely as his nose rested atop her head smelling her fragrance; a very subtle womanly scent he had already committed to memory. He considered, just a moment, to kiss her senseless and make love to her. The desk or the carpet in front of the fire … the couch maybe? Would she forget about this conversation? Let him lead as he pleased? Unfortunately, Frances was a perceptive one, and she set her hands gently upon his chest, as if putting some distance between their humming bodies.

— "How long have you known?"

Her tone held just the right amount of wariness for him to know she had guessed. He should have lied to her, right there and then, and smoothed her ruffled feathers with a kiss, dinner and a glass of wine. But Hannibal was no liar, neither was she. Turning his head aside, he only provided the smallest amount of information.

— "A little while," came his detached syllables.

Frances took an unconscious step back, still in reach of his long arms, but severing the contact nonetheless.

— "Did you mean to tell him?"

— "Not now"

— "Why?" she shot back.

— "I wanted to know what would happen."

Fury, disappointment, sadness, anger. Stone-faced, she didn't let any of those emotions show on her face. But her gaze, ablaze, spoke much to a man that was used to pick up the slightest of inflections in the tone of voice, the smallest of eye movement, the most insignificant of breaths. She was starting to see him now … and she didn't like it. A killer, she could handle. But a manipulative bastard? She wasn't so sure.

Hannibal couldn't help the pang of regret that seized his heart. There went the acceptance he thought he'd found. For she loved him, this ancient version of him … of this he had no doubt. But she had overlooked so many things in his modern self. His coldness, his inability to love entirely, and his manipulative ways. Underestimated at best. Her love was only partial, for she barely saw a fraction of what he was.

Tears suddenly pooled in her eyes; an unexpected outcome, for she didn't take a swing at his head. Her voice was but a whisper, the reverence still here as she pronounced his name.

— "You care for him, Hannibal. Why would you hurt him so?"

Her words echoed in his chest like the mightiest of uppercuts. Hurt? He wasn't hurting Will, merely bringing him to the breaking point where he would recognise his inner self. Raise from the ashes of his self-inflicted pain and anguish, accept his whole beauty.

— "I will make sure he is in no danger of dying."

The young woman scoffed, her eyes wide with disbelief.

— "Death? Is that the only danger to you?"

— "Yes. What else?"

The earnest answer cut her anger down, leaving instead, a desperate plea.

— "Don't you see the scars you are carving? Don't you see the hurt, the doubt, the self-depreciation? How about discovering that the man you think your friend has lied to you? Manipulated you to think you were nuts? All this … experiment, it will all leave a mark upon him, never forgotten. I've seen his soul broken into tiny pieces already, I don't want to witness his demise again."

There was no answer, Hannibal's guarded gaze resting upon her tears strained face, for what could he say? She would never understand his motives, as he had not understood her point of view. Her very human, very normal point of view. Perhaps… Will's point of view? As he mused upon it, Frances lifted her hands in surrender.

— "I don't understand, I don't understand at all. I'm sorry, I need to go right now."

And she picked her woollen coat up, preventing him from coming at her with a shake of her head. Everywhere, anytime, he always helped her into her coat. A gentleman, through and through, with manners of another century. The manners his parents taught him, his only inheritance now. Frances always joked that even if a tidal wave came rushing, he would find the time to hold her vest's sleeves. And open the passenger door on her behalf. She usually kissed him after this, the twinkle in her eyes fading as love washed over them. But today, she wasn't smiling at his habits. Today, she just looked devastated. By him. And it hurt. So when she passed the door of his office, his only words were one of safety. His bleeding heart was too shocked to utter anything else.

— "Do you have your car, Frances?"

The last thing he wanted was for her to wander in the night.

— "I'll walk. Don't worry about me, I can take care of myself. I'm not afraid to be alone."

And she disappeared in the darkness, the last fiery strand engulfed in the night. Alone.


	9. Chapter 9 - Near death experience

**_So … what now, uh? Same as before, a little review makes my day. French, Spanish, Italian, English, Danish, Norwegian or German, be my guest. I am not picky, just a few words. Please ? If you like, let me know what you think._**

The hour was late. Dinner, alone, had left a sour taste in his mouth. Not that the food left to be desired. No matter the circumstances, Hannibal always knew how to cook a delicious dish. But it wasn't the same, to eat alone, or to share it. Especially since Frances always complimented him, searching, assessing, tasting… His exceptional love for food permeated to her, albeit to a lesser degree. Yet she always strived to learn, curious about his every move, watching intently as he cooked. Not one of his ideas went undiscussed, not one of the spices, the colours, the textures unnoticed. When had it become a welcome respite, to share the kitchen with her in the evening? He wondered.

Now, glass of wine in his hand, eyes lost in the crackling fire, Hannibal wondered what he wanted most. Her presence? It certainly put a soothing balm on his aching soul. Her touch? Her acceptance? The truth… Yes. The truth. First and foremost. For deep within his chest, something incomplete begged for him to dig further. And so, eyeing the delicious Mouton Cadet with a sigh, Hannibal plunged into the deep burgundy robe of this delicious cru. Time to man up. A smirk adorned his face; he never backed down from a challenge. And this one was very different from the trials of his life. Yet, he would face it head on. Setting the glass of wine aside, Hannibal started breathing slowly. In, and out. In, and out. The background disappeared, blurring, and he left the gentle cracking of the embers guide his thoughts.

In less than ten minutes, he attained the state of meditation that released his alpha waves. It was an effort, to let them take over, to slide into the deep state of hypnosis, to surrender control. Even to himself. A necessary evil.

The sensation that surged forth was already familiar. The droplets of tears falling upon his face, the contours of her face barely distinguishable through the haze of his pain. For he was in pain, a crippling, tremendous tear that fortunately, didn't take over his modern self; despite his high tolerance, Hannibal would have had a seizure. Still, he knew himself to be dying, his conscience sliding, inch by inch, to the darkness. He could feel the life flowing out of him, could feel her own blood pooling over his armour from the bolt piercing her collarbone. Worry seized his chest at the swarmy sight of her gruesome wound. How would she survive such a thing? She would be crippled for life, pained for years to come until death took her away. Would she ever use her arm again ? How would she survive ? He prayed to whatever God that his brothers would take care of her. That Arthur would…

Her eyes held his, daring him to close them, raising panic replacing frantic worry. "Tristan," she breathed, leaning painfully upon his broken form. It didn't matter that she pressed on painful wounds for he knew there was no surviving this. He'd been stabbed too many times, incapacitated by stronger than he. A piercing cry called his eyes to the sky. It was too bright, but very soon, a cloud of acrid smoke released the pressure of the shining sun. Two huge wings tore through it, and his mouth tried to smile. "Isolde," he breathed out before closing his eyes. Frances' frantic cries called him back to life, for one small instant. "Don't you dare," she yelled, tears pooling in her shiny eyes. "Don't you dare leaving me like this !"

For a moment, or eternity, Tristan closed his eyes once more. He was ready to welcome death, to disappear from the world and join the spirits … and tell them of the heartaches he had suffered, of the injustice of his life. Of his love for Frances, his little fairy. Even if she did not return it, for she loved another, one brighter, more beautiful than he ever would be. Then something glowed above him. Tendrils of light reached into his chest, Frances' very being sipping through his, her life force shared to raise him to consciousness once more. A desperate attempt, for he knew he was lost. Still, he basked in the strength of her love for a moment, relishing that, in this very moment, they were joined as one by the grace of her gift.

Tristan was at peace. He had protected Arthur, so that he could become the great King that the Keeper of Time predicted. He had protected her, so that she could go and find her betrothed. Mission accomplished. He could die now, knowing his life had not been lost in vain. Her energy was waning, the flow of energy she shared dimming by the second. Cold crept into his bones, chasing her warm tendrils away. It was a losing battle; he couldn't allow her to spend her energy thus. She was far too wounded to sustain it any longer, but the stubborn woman wouldn't let got. The strain was too great; her bloodloss already crippling. It was up to him to sever the link lest she killed herself trying to revive him.

His eyes opened once more, and he summoned whatever was left of his energy to caress her cheek. Her smooth, beautiful, and brutally bruised cheek. How he loved her, this fiery woman who had shared a searing kiss with him atop his faithful steed. "Don't cry little fairy," he said. "I will watch…" A cough racked his body, blood spluttering over. A punctured lung. A death sentence. "Will watch over you … from up there." His eyes locked on hers, intense, their depth unreadable, two mesmerising orbs that kept her under his spell until the very last moment. Then there was only darkness, before a bright light engulfed him, and his body fell, lifeless, on the unforgiving floor of Badon Hill.

Hannibal's amber eyes opened, shell shocked. He had tried so hard, to push the truth away, to take refuge into the meanders of his genius mind. He'd been so ready to accept Frances' schizophrenia, albeit she never showed any symptoms of it, assessing like a psychiatrist would a patient. How rude of him ! No wonder she seemed cross whenever he spoke of her mental state. For her wounds, her scars were very different than expected, and he had denied them all to escape the gruesome reality. But now there was nothing to guard him anymore, nothing between this day and the painful death, and life he had lived fifteen hundred years ago. As if he had joined the two pieces of himself. And it frightened him.

His eyes roamed the living room, wondering why he had started from his trance. There, half concealed in the shadows on his home, stood a woman with a fiery mane. A whisper passed his lips.

— "Little fairy"

Frances' features suddenly crumpled and Hannibal stood on wobbly legs. He couldn't recall the last time an event had shaken him so badly. Not a word was exchanged as he strode to her, his heart hammering, and engulfed her in the mightiest of hugs. Not the cold restrained embraces he allowed himself to give; this one was desperate, more human, more hearted than any he had given before. Tristan was rubbing on him. She didn't protest, moulding into his tall frame with relief, pressing her head in the crook of his neck; a place that had become hers now. And when his hand came to rest upon her head, caressing her silky hair, a stunned whisper passed his lips. The dreadful weight of realization. The horrible truth that Tristan had known all along; that he, Hannibal Lectern psychiatrist extraordinaire and human lie detector, had blissfully ignored until then.

— "You were not mine."

Her hold tightened further.

— "Now I am."

And he believed her; Frances never lied. To hell with the rest. Claiming her lips, Hannibal proceeded to kiss her senseless, pouring his heart into her. 'I love you,' it hammered painfully, 'I love you as much as I am broken'. His need was answered with her own, tears running down her face as she realised that he knew. Hannibal almost threw her on the couch, unable to summon his usual restraint, Tristan's need fuelling his desire to claim her. She welcomed his ministrations heartily, skirt hoisted up her thighs as they joined like a couple of teenagers, searching for patches of bare skin to sate the need for closeness. How sweet her moans and cries, how desperate as well. How wild she could be when she surrendered to the tigress within! Then, as he lay panting, kneeling in front of her – feeling every bit an animal – Hannibal gathered his wife into his arms and took her upstairs, starting anew. He bestowed lavish kisses and caresses upon her body, tasted her once more in the soft sheets of his bed, marking her his, body and soul. An apology of sort, without words, for thinking her crazy when she had never lied to him. And while he coiled in ecstasy, buried deep within her heated core, moaning her name, Hannibal wondered once more how he deserved her. His hold only tightened; he could not let go, not now, not ever.

And when both were eventually sated, Frances settled on her side, watching the amber light of the fire flicker upon his face. So handsome, with his high cheekbones and chiselled features, that her hand traced the spot where his tattoos used to mark him. There was much to be said, now that he believed her, and his first question concerned Legolas. The elf that had been her lover, and now lived happily with a clone of herself, Melenwë. Frances told him how she had struck a deal with Loki, an Asgardian alien who had created a clone of herself to send to middle earth, and should have left the original Frances on earth for her to continue being the Keeper of Time. She suspected the little grey butt – a per Jack O'Neill's own word – of having created a third one to study and discard whenever he was done. Herself. Hannibal's hands clenched and unclenched at hearing this. He wasn't so sure why, for he might have done similar things in the past. Manipulation was a second nature to him. His game, now, with Abigail, Will and Miriam Lass wasn't more brilliant, nor less controlling. Still, witnessing the heartache it could create, the repercussions on Frances' mind, the sadness buried deep within… He wanted to kiss it away, to unburden her soul with a soothing presence.

Somewhere deep within, his humanity stirred; Hannibal was starting to understand. And while Frances spoke of the past, of elves, of aliens, of the stargate program and of her travel back into the fifth century, he swallowed it whole. And he watched her beautiful features as she told him everything, and his hand caressed her cheek many times, marvelling that she was by his side. After all of this, she was here, with him, gracing his sheets with her beautiful presence, his nose with her sweet fragrance, his body with her soft touch. So when she told him of Galahad, Hannibal could only consider the resonance.

— "He told me, on your grave, how he regretted saying that you were a cold-hearted killer in your face. What he said about you … about Tristan, didn't feel right when he saw how much I grieved your passing"

There were tears in her eyes, but she blinked them away when he gathered her into the circle of his arms. Frances settled with a sigh upon his chest, her fingers grazing the chestnut hair. Then she set the palm of her hand flat on his heart, relishing in the strong and regular beat. Something she had done countless times before; he understood now. Hannibal remained silent, waiting until she was ready to share some more.

— "A part of him was right, you know. You were always taunting him, mocking him, but you saved his life probably as many times as he saved yours,"

Hannibal voiced his concerns evenly.

— "What shall we do now ?"

— "I don't want this war to rekindle, Hannibal. Not again. I don't want to be between the two of you, I couldn't stand it. I had nothing left in my life when I found you. Having the two of you back is more than I could ever wish. Don't put me in this position again. Resolve your issues, become the friends you were meant to be. Watch over him like he will watch over you. Let us be the family fate had robbed us of"

Hannibal kissed her temple gently.

— "I will endeavour to make us a family, my little fairy."

And this very night, Hannibal listened to her breathing as she slept, utterly spent. For his part, slumber eluded him as his mind ran a hundred miles a minute.

This must end.

He was willing to give it a try. But how could he make things right? Right for whom? He that had no gauge for human emotions, or righteousness, was at loss about where to start. Maybe he could ask Frances for her opinion. She was, after all, the only normal human to which he could talk, and possessed no lack of intelligence nor empathy. Together, they might devise a plan to bring closure to William. Expose the Chesapeake ripper – Miriam Lass was quite ready to be released after all. Brainwashed, she would never testify against him. This could also bring closure to Jack, who had enough of his wife dying of lung cancer. The solution slowly formed in his mind. Not that it was too difficult, mind you. Hannibal's contingency plans had contingency plans. But all loose ends must be tied lest he be discovered.

They could push Abigail Hobbs to move across the country and find another psychiatrist. What better departure in life than to leave it all behind? Hannibal sighed. He needed to let her go, because she could never replace his sister Mischa. Abigail was not meant to thrive in his shadow.

He would take Will to the neurologist, and have him treated for encephalitis. Hannibal was pretty sure the disease came from eating human brain – a lunchbox he has fed him. Incredible, how Will's body reacted unconsciously as it refused to eat human flesh.

Is this how it felt to be an empathic human being? He did not know, nor relished in it. But the smile on Frances' face, the morning after, when they devised the carefully led plans was enough to teach him that, yes, this was the right thing to do. For her, at least. For William as well. Since he couldn't kill, Hannibal needed to find a new hobby. Doing good, as per his wife's ethics, meant a radical change of point of view. Entertaining; as it used different brain paths than his usual ones; it would keep his mind busy for a while. Until…

**_So. I wasn't really expecting the outcome of this chapter when I wrote it. But I'm rather happy because it is the first time we revisit Tristan's death from his point of view. I'm also a little floored that this one shot is becoming more elaborate by the minute. I have to face the facts; I can't do short :D_**


	10. Chapter 10 - Bella

**_Hey. So I hope you are still hooked! Here come a gentle chapter, quite long by the way, about Hannibal and Frances' life as they try to settle in a routine. Bella will also kick a little over the traces._**

Many an evening passed, Hannibal composing on the harpsichord while Frances wrote her story, loved on the couch. Despite her writings not being of classical quality – although it was rather pleasant, for a French – the psychiatrist was drawn to her story like a moth to a flame. His past self, bared for him to discover. Each of her words like the smear of an impressionist brush, painting a corner of Tristan, drawing shadows around him until the light was revealed; a fascinating tale. The simple idea of him sporting a mane of unkempt hair, braids and beard, and not washing for weeks was enough to make him cringe. The description of his blood lust, though, tugged at the threads of his sanity. And the tiny bits of Will as Galahad also brought memories forth … memories of grassy plains, stretching as far as the eye could see until the dark blue sky met them. Of horses, the best friends he ever had, and his hawk. Of brothers in arms, dying one after the other, for the oppressive Rome who had all but crushed his people. Rightful wrath sometimes seized his heart, wrath like he'd never felt since Mischa's death.

Tonight, as Frances' fingers ran across the keyboard faster than the eye could see, Hannibal did not settle in front of the harpsichord. He spared a glance to this woman who had shaken his world with her presence. To this day, he was still unsure whether it was for the best, or impaired him. It just was, and Hannibal adapted to the change of situation like he always had. A cat thrown from the seventh floor would not have managed to land on his paws with more grace. Still, seeing her small frame wrapped in one of his shirts – red waves tumbling over immaculate cotton – sent warm tingles down his spine. She belonged to him now, wrapped in his scent, for she never picked freshly pressed shirts from his closet, choosing instead to wear the one he had just discarded the day before. Frances had such a sensitive smell that she relished in the warmth and presence that clung to the fabric, surrounding herself in the fragrance that was purely him. A habit he didn't mind much, for she took care of them, mindful to return them untainted.

Hannibal settled in front of his desk; intend on using the principle of sublimation to unburden his subconscious. Picking up his pencils, he started sketching. The shadows assembled, forming a silhouette he knew too well, but his hands would not still. So he went on sketching, sparing, once in a while, a glance at the fiery lady that had claimed his couch … and his life. She sometimes danced in his dreams. Laden in the Keeper of Time's armour, or in a Chanel skirt he had bought for her. He knew both versions of her to be fiercely protective of the people she loved; she would die for him. Of this, he harboured no doubt. Yet he still had trouble reconciling the two Frances, especially since the first one was part of memories long past.

Sensing his attention upon her, the young woman stood up and stretched. Her movements, like a cat waking up from slumber, full of grace. Dangerous. Sending him a smile, she walked up to him, her toes gracing the wooden floor like a classical dancer's would. If Hannibal didn't shed his shoes until bedtime, Frances hated being enclosed and had found a pair of lovely sleepers that left her toes free to roll and unroll as she stalked around the house. Frances set a hand upon his shoulder, where his waistcoat stopped, baring the shirt beneath. Her hand caused his skin to warm up under the thin cotton, stopping his movement. Then she bestowed a gentle kiss upon his temple, mindful not to jolt him for he still held his pencil, and contemplated the sketch he had started. It depicted Galahad sitting atop his horse, gaze lost in the horizon, a wistful look on his face. He sported his Roman armour, the reins firmly held in hand. Frances' chocolate eyes widened slightly, and he was sure her eyes misted over at the sigh.

— "You have such talent, darling. A picture couldn't be more accurate. The way you render things is so vivid, I love it,"

Hannibal nodded proudly. His chest swelled from her genuine praise, happy that, for once, people were not gushing because of his status or wealth, or because they wanted him to acknowledge them. No. What Frances gave was truthful admiration and love shone in her eyes as she took in the picture. It was acceptance, a feeling he couldn't get enough of; one addiction he'd rather indulge in that shy away from. Nothing along the lines of 'I would love to draw like you' or anything of the sort passed her lips. No jealousy, no envy, only pride in his work. Frances was only too happy to acknowledge his gift, and let him know of her admiration. That woman had no sense of pressing advantage, or playing cards close to her chest; she gave freely and happily to anyone she loved, and Hannibal couldn't help but compare their opposite ways.

But now was not the time to linger on his wickedness. Now was a time for sharing.

— "I draw from memories," he said, pencil accentuating some shadows here and there.

— "From dreams?"

Hannibal nodded.

— "Yes."

The young woman squinted slightly, taking in the intricate design of Galahad's armour.

— "Your memory is impressive. You have an eye for every little detail."

— "Edeitic. Just like Will's"

This time, Frances knelt beside him, resting her head on his arm for a while, inhaling the sweet masculine scent of him through his pristine shirt. It was laughable, really, to learn about this simple fact for her memory, too, bordered on eidetic. Not as powerful as theirs, though. But for once, it would be nice to have someone who remembers as much as she did, if not more.

— "How fitting that both your brains should have this very rare quality. One more thing that binds you."

— "Aye"

The word called a smile to her lips. Ever since he had discovered Tristan's existence, Hannibal sometimes reverted to expressions of the scout. They shared as many characteristics as difference. The sense of smell, awareness, cunning and memory were common to both. The attention for details as well, and the way they both hid behind a façade; where Tristan chose to remain silent to fend people off, Hannibal created the distance with manners and poise. He had learnt the codes of society, yet wasn't part of it. But the scout's gruffness and rudeness certainly could not be mentioned to Hannibal. And Tristan had been much more attuned to nature, something Will had not forgotten, but the psychiatrist quite forsaken.

— "What about we make a book out of this? We can scan your drawings and include them as illustrations. Then I'll print, sew it together and bind it. It could be a nice Christmas present for Will"

Hannibal's eyes lightened up at the idea, such a rare display of eagerness that she drank in his features, committing his smile to memory.

— "And for us. It is a brilliant idea, my beautiful."

— "Can you imagine what a historian would give to lay his hands on this?"

Hannibal nodded again, a smirk lifting the corner of his lips.

— "Let's hope none set his hands on us. They might poke our brains to no end like Doctor Chilton pokes this poor Gideon."

The young woman frowned. Hannibal and Will would only have the historians chasing after them. But if the US government came to realise that she had travelled back in the past and from an alternate reality, or that she was a clone … she would be a lab rat for the rest of her short life. Already, their air force had visited her in hospital after her stunt calling the private numbers of the NORAD base in Cheyenne Mountain. She couldn't afford to be discovered. A tug on her sleeve, and she was suddenly sitting in Hannibal's lap. Much like Tristan used to ground her beside him in Vanora's tavern.

— "Do not worry, beautiful. I will not let anyone approach you with ill intentions. I will protect you to the end."

Frances buried her head on his shoulder, shuddering at the intensity of his vow, the silk of his voice laden with an underlying threat. Sensing her hesitation, Hannibal looked for her eyes and pressed his words with conviction.

— "I always keep my promises, Frances."

— "It is not what I fear. I don't doubt you, Hannibal."

When she said no more, he couldn't help but pry.

— "Tell me what bothers you."

— "You already died protecting me. I never want to go through that again."

The psychiatrist held her gaze a moment, then kissed her lips tenderly before guiding her head on his shoulder again. He knew Tristan had died to keep her safe. But now, and then, he could not refrain from making the same vow. Frances would not come to harm under his watch.

The young woman settled in the waiting room, taking time to watch the décor. Fine furniture and elegant drapings, the epitome of Hannibal's taste. Her ears couldn't help but be attuned to the muffled crumbs of conversation that scarcely echoed through the closed door. Even though she had returned many times to Hannibal's office, her emotional memory couldn't get over the day she had found him pinned to his desk by a murderous Tobias. Each time her feet passed the door, her heart rate picked up before it eventually settled. She had come so close, that day, to losing him again. Frances shuddered, crossing her legs tight to distract her running mind. If he died … there would be nothing more than death to greet her. Thankfully, the opening of the door pulled her out from her spiralling thoughts.

Frances' chocolate eyes opened wide as she watched Bella, Jack Crawford's wife, exiting Hannibal's office. The beautiful woman paused at seeing her, many expressions crossing her features before resolve settled in.

— "Hello, Frances. I'm happy to see you again. Can I offer you some lunch?"

The invitation took her aback. Sure, they had agreed to meet again after the dinner at Hannibal's, but until then, life had been a little hectic. Neither women had dared calling the other and now… Bella seemed in a rush to keep her promise. Frances shared a look with her husband – there had been no ceremony, but they considered themselves married – who loomed over the doorframe, his impassive face giving nothing away. His eyes, though, held no warning nor disapproval. An agreement of sorts, so Frances turned to Bella.

— "Er. Sure, I would be delighted. Give me a minute, and I'll be all yours."

The tall woman smiled.

— "Great, I'll wait outside."

— "It is not necessary. I just wanted to drop Hannibal's lunch. I know he will have little time before the next patient and would rather fast than call for a pizza"

Bella gave Frances a fond look as Hannibal froze in the doorway, his hands unconsciously blocking the frame. How could she possibly know that he had scheduled another patient after Bella, squeezing his lunch time to mere scrapes? He might have mentioned it, more than two weeks ago … and then it hit him. Frances had, just as himself and Will, an incredible memory. The fact that she had stored this information, and bothered to pack him something to eat – he that relished in home cooked meals more than anything – touched him deeply.

— "That is very thoughtful," he said. Then he added with a twinkle in his eyes "And the only pizza worth eating are yours."

The redhead lifted an eyebrow in a playful expression, but fondness still shone in her eyes. She would have given anything to be there when Hannibal would find the beautiful arrangement she had pieced for him, plates and silverware included, as well as the glass of wine she has stored into a lovely miniature bottle.

— "Can't let my husband starve, high metabolism and all."

To this, Bella actually chuckled.

— "Definitely can't"

Hannibal allowed a smirk to adorn his lips to hide the swarm of emotions that rushed through his chest. His gaze returned to his lovely wife, taking in the twisted bun and casual, yet classy clothes she adorned. A long-sleeved kimono top bared her collarbone, its Japanese style fitting her entirely. A little fairy she was – a kitsune[1], today – always taking care of him with the slightest of attention. Be it so save his life, or just call a smile to his lips, Frances always thought of him. Addressing him a genuine smile, she picked up the cooler bag and left it in his care with a chaste kiss.

— "Until later, my darling," she whispered against his lips.

But the psychiatrist wasn't about to let her go so easily. Snatching an arm around her waist, he rested his forehead against hers. He hoped his gaze conveyed the gratitude he felt, and hid his worry. If he was right about Bella's intentions, Frances would need his presence before this day was over, as he needed hers in his life. Tightening his hold for a moment – he wasn't one for public displays – he just held her, closing his eyes to inhale the scent that was so distinctively hers. Then he let her go.

— "You have my thanks"

— "You are very welcome. Bon appétit, beloved"

Bella's lips twitched at the romantic display, sadness just barely kept at bay as she linked her arm through Frances to sweep her away from her one true love.

_The same evening_

The set of strong arms that awaited her as she passed the threshold of the magnificent mansion folded her into a supportive embrace. Frances let the tears fall, crying silently over the injustice of Bella's stage four cancer and her approaching death. She cried for the woman she had come to admire, she cried for Jack Crawford who would be devastated, and cried for herself because her first potential friend was already dying. All this time, Hannibal only held her, his chin propped on the side of her head, his long fingers caressing her hair soothingly. The strength of his tall frame, unwavering as she unburdened her sorrows, told her everything would be fine. Eventually. That he would be here no matter what, and could take anything.

While Hannibal cooked dinner – she swore it was his equivalent of therapy – Frances allowed his dance around the kitchen to lull her thoughts, leaving them unbridled as she watched. The psychiatrist's lean body manoeuvred gracefully from post to post, mixing, sorting, washing and selecting various items he fetched in the pantry. It was mesmerising, to see him work. Like a dancer performing the most difficult of choregraphies, his will focused on the control of his muscles. Such was the intensity of Hannibal when he worked. Chop, chop, chop. Precise gestures and a sharp knife that left nothing to luck. Fresh fish was sliced, the Japanese way, while he mixed sugar and rice vinegar to cook the sushi rice in. Apparently, tonight's dinner was inspired by her choice of attire.

The young woman searched his eyes, addressing him a smile of gratitude for the effort of preparing one of her favourite dishes. There was nothing like fresh sushi, especially when prepared by such a chef. Hannibal smiled back, the lines at the corner of his eyes slightly cringing the way she loved it. But his eyes were expectant; he awaited her words. Not many passed her lips as she recalled the conversation of this previous lunch. Right before Bella lifted the hammer, and nailed the bad news into her skull, she had expressed her curiosity about them.

— _"I have to admit that I had doubts, at first. It is not often Hannibal Lecter is seen in company of a young woman."_

_Frances quirked an eyebrow. What an elegant way to approach things. But she wouldn't blame Bella for being curious._

— _"You mean the age difference put you off?"_

_The tall woman snorted, then a full smile bloomed on her face._

— _"Yeah. I mean that, and other things."_

— _"Such as?"_

— _"Well, don't get me wrong, I am not here to criticise. But what Dr Lecter presents to the world is … rather cold. I just wondered how this came to be."_

_So Bella wanted to know how they met, and fell in love. Well, she was in for disappointment, for there was nothing she could share regarding this. Dodging the question, Frances chose to ask instead:_

— _"And now?"_

— _"I still wonder, but I see the way he looks at you, like you're a miracle in his life. And vice versa"_

Frances cocked her head aside, wondering if this statement was true. For her part, there was no doubt. Finding Tristan alive, even in a killer's body and mind, was nothing short of a miracle. But what of him? Did she really deserve this happiness, now that she lived with a serial killer? Knowing what he had done, was he was capable of, and protecting him?

— _"You are right, for my part at least. What Hannibal shows to the world is only a part of himself. His walls are strong."_

— _"I guess they are, not much goes past them. Except you"_

Frances shrugged. Granted, he had allowed her to barge into his life without pushing back. Perhaps the repressed memories of their time as Tristan and the Keeper of Time. Perhaps because, deep down, his subconscious knew of their past love.

— _"I have a special key, I guess.__ Hannibal is a very passionate man with lots of restraint. This is the way he was raised."_

There. It was the truth, without revealing too much. Bella seemed to muse over her words for a moment, taking a sip of her red wine before her dark eyes squinted slightly.

— _"Not unlike you?"_

The young woman scoffed this time.

— _"I couldn't possibly compete."_

_She may be a restrained individual with lots of secrets, but she didn't come close to Hannibal's self-control. Or Tristan's, for that matter. But Bella was done with her interrogation as she teared up a piece of bread._

— _"So are you not going to ask what I was doing in Dr Lecter's office?"_

Frances shrugged, digging into her beef.

— _"Nope. Your secrets are yours until you decide to share it. Unlike some, I don't pry into people's lives."_

_Bella sent her a bashful look._

— _"Yes, I guess Jack had it coming, right?_

_Frances nodded; yes, this could apply to Jack Crawford too. But her mind had been set on Hannibal in the first place. He was the one who loved picking others' brains, and turning it upside down. But Bella didn't know that, and nor should Jack Crawford. The young woman slapped herself mentally; her carelessness could have exposed Hannibal. She needed to better guard her thoughts. He trusted her with his secret, she couldn't afford to sell him now._

_Fortunately, Bella was now trying to explain her husband's stressful life and need to be suspicious of anything and anyone. Leading the Behavioural Science Unit for the FBI led to tons of bad situations._

— _"Don't worry, Bella. I understand that Jack means to protect his friends, and his wife."_

The beautiful woman passed a hand in her curly hair before she sighed heavily, reclining in her chair.

— _"Yeah. I wonder how he will react when he learns that he can't protect me this time."_

Frances' heart increased its pace immediately, her features suddenly serious as her voice dropped. The reaction of a fighter.

— _"What do you mean? Are you in danger?"_

— _"I have stage four lung cancer. I won't see next year, Frances."_

A teapot of freshly brewed sencha tea suddenly appeared on the kitchen counter. Rinsed twice, as was the Japanese tradition, and presented in a cast iron teapot. Not too hot, for the sencha leaves turned bitter when brewed over eighty degrees.

— "There is nothing more soothing than a cup of sencha, my beautiful."

Hannibal's voice caused shivers to run up her spine, and she could nearly hear his smirk as he settled behind her, engulfing her in the safety of his arms. His taut silhouette pressed softly against her slender frame, his cheek in contact with her temple. Anywhere, anytime, that man could overpower her in a heartbeat. She was a helpless child compared to his cold efficiency. How was it that she felt so safe in his embrace when she should be afraid?

— "Are you willing to offer companionship? To face death again?" he asked.

There was curiosity in his tone, the same one that had led him to play with Will's mind. He wondered how she would hold up, how she would fare. If she was strong enough. This side of him unsettled her, but she knew it couldn't be chased away. Curious and manipulative; like a child picking up flies and tearing their wings, not even conscious of the morbidity of his own actions.

Frances wondered if he would be there for her when she crumbled. Would he present her with another cup of tea? Or watch her come undone without moving a limb? The young woman turned in his embrace, all cup of tea forgotten as she settled her back against the kitchen counter.

— "Will you be here when I falter?" she asked.

Hannibal plunged his amber eyes into hers, pinning her in place long enough for him to assess his possible reactions. Then, at last, he nodded.

— "I will support you, Frances like a husband should."

She deflated against him, pulling him close to circle her arms around his surprisingly tight waist. Her nose buried in his crisp shirt and she inhaled deeply, taking in the pure scent of him.

— "Then I am ready"

Frances released his chest, kissing his lips softly before fishing one of the teacups for him. Hannibal addressed her a nod of acknowledgement – her politeness endeared him – and waited for her to pick hers before he sipped at the characteristic brew. Gentleman one day, gentleman always. Frances' jaw was set, resolve settling in her eyes as she regarded him over the rim of her delicate cup.

— "I held this young man's hand, once, on the Pelennor's field."

And her gaze grew distant, remembering the sea of corpses, human, horses and orcs alike. The stench of this graveyard, the earth tainted with red and black blood. The worst battlefield she had ever witnessed, more gruesome than Badon Hill. Hannibal's gentle touch on her wrist called her back to him, and she eagerly followed his swirl of dark light out of the Pelennor mass grave.

— "He was Erbaran, son of Halbarad. His father hated me, he lay dead a few yards away. Hence I was the only one left holding his son's hand as he joined him, his blood flowing out like a river. I have faced death already. I even faced yours. I can do this"

— "I do not doubt you, wife."

And the trust in his voice was so genuine that she couldn't help but kiss him senseless.

* * *

[1] A Japanese fairy


	11. Chapter 11 - Of Free Will

**_Hey, I think that's my longest chapter on this fiction. I thank all who reviewed, and those who dropped a little word and motivated me to write this one. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy the moment. I noticed that I have 13 followers, but not many reviews. I assume you like this story, if you follow. Do you think you could drop me a line to let me know what you like and don't like ? It is always demotivating to not know what people think :(_**

**_Cheers. And erm, this short dabble in on its way to become a 60k words fiction so… yeah, I can't do short. But what can I say, Mads Mikkelsen is a very inspiring character :D_**

A few rays of light permeated his room, the chill settling in ever since the fire had died around 2am. Yet Hannibal swore he would never be cold in bed again; Frances followed him wherever he lay. It didn't matter than his bed was nearly 2 meters wide – king size of course – for she always ended up cuddled against him. She would claim his chest, most of the time, and fall asleep within minutes. Some other times, she just dragged his arms around her and he would be the one spooning her. He didn't miss the solitude, though, especially since he didn't rise at night for a quick kill anymore. Hannibal was a man of honor; he respected their bargain. And despite the itches that burnt his hands when meeting rude people, he had to admit that her presence brought him much more than he originally thought.

The contact of her skin, for one, bought him a strange sense of belonging. It only fed his pride that she would look for him, even in her sleep. It gave him purpose, to care and protect her as fiercely as he protected his secret.

For the moment, though, her faint whimpers and shaking body worried him. There was no fever; the whole length of her side rested against him. As a former doctor, he would know if she was sick. That left a nightmare. It wouldn't be the first, nor the last. And usually, she spoke about it when she woke up. Death, giant spiders, battlefield, wraiths. His blood pooling around him as he died … as Tristan died. That woman had not reached thirty, but had lived enough to leave anyone traumatized. She suffered from a mild case of PTSD, of course, but they both refused to enter the patient-doctor relationship. And she could talk to no one, beside him. Not until Will Graham knew about it all. Would he ever be informed of the whole truth ? That was Frances' decision, and hers alone to take.

Recently, Frances had dodged more questions about her nightmares than a politician. It worried him, but he didn't push; Frances was as stubborn as he was, and completely impervious to manipulation. The psychiatrist sighed; he had promised anyway, not to lead her astray. She trusted him; he couldn't break his vows. So he waited for her to open up about her nightmares, hoping it was just her subconscious coping with the hardships of her life, and not a gruesome even to come. For he believed her, now, when she said she sometimes saw the future. So he would be left to wonder… Fair enough. If Frances didn't want to talk, he could still make a proper breakfast to give her heart. She had a visit planned to Bella this afternoon; she always came back tired and depressed. A nice morning could do wonders to her mood.

An hour later, Hannibal sipped at a cup of tea in his living room, his eyes roaming over the newly decorated walls. Not that the paper had changed, of course. But Frances had acquired some frames for his pictures, and he had chosen which of his drawings he wanted on the wall. It was a very simple gesture, but one he had never thought of before. His wife, though, had told him that beautiful work should make him proud, and that his touch deserved to be displayed. She was right – as usual. It warmed up the place, and whenever his eyes roamed over those framed pictures, he felt proud to be their creators.

Light steps echoed in the corridor, and Hannibal stood to greet Frances. Red sweater still on – his first patient was hours from there, he didn't want to wake her up to get dressed – he pulled the chair for her as she sat. She wore a cashmere jumper he had bought for her, a dark blue one with a plunging neckline that revealed his pristine shirt underneath. Her hair was still messy from the night, pulled into a high bun before she tamed the incredible length of reddish waves. A set of curls escaped it, bouncing down along her rounded skull as if mocking her. The young woman took the meal in, her eyes roaming over the table with an appreciative smile. It didn't reach her eyes, tough, and Hannibal' lips pulled down slightly.

— "You look tired, Frances. Nightmares again ?"

— "Yes. And the fall, perhaps. I feel tired"

There was something she wasn't saying, secrets she didn't want to share… yet. How could she tell him that she was trying to give some energy to Bella, the same way she had tried to give some to Tristan before he died on the battlefield ? That she had no idea how it worked, and what she was doing ?

— "You need a proper coat now, my beautiful. We will go to the seamstress, she can probably find something that fits your tastes and protects you from harsher weather"

Frances sipped at her cup of tea, relief flooding her features as the warm liquid soothed her. She swore that man was perfect for her. And the perspective of a proper coat to face the winter was a good one. She had frozen her ass last year, having nothing but a cheap vest.

— "I would be delighted. You know I enjoy good quality clothing just as much as you do"

Hannibal stood to serve her a piece of omelette, his scent permeating as he bent over her shoulder. The slight fragrance caused her body to relax; he was here, at arm's lenght. Her nightmare could go to hell ! And when his smooth accented voice echoed behind her, Frances let it coat her aches, wrapping her in music that never ceased to amaze her. She could have listened to him for days, that suave lilting voice of his.

— "You are the prefect customer for a seamstress, you don't even need a corset to have the perfect silhouette. I'm sure she will have the best of times trying to create something for you"

The young woman frowned; just how much was he willing to spend for a winter coat ? Setting her cup of tea on the china plate delicately, she turned to him.

— "Hannibal…"

The psychiatrist was sitting anew, at the head of the table as was his habit. He didn't even raise his eyes from the saucepan as he interrupted her.

— "If this is about cost, I am afraid I will have to dismiss your concerns. You deserve the best, and we can afford it. Furthermore, I happen to love seeing my wife in wrapped in luxury and comfort"

Frances nodded; discussion closed. How many times had she complained about him doting on her, only for him to retort that she had served the world as the Keeper of Time, and left behind all that she cared about. This was worth a little compensation. His arguments made sense, and he said 'we can afford it', not 'I'. Which meant he considered them as a couple sharing an income. She never felt indebted to him because he didn't present his purchases as gifts. He bought what she didn't dare buying, deciding that as long as she refused to consider her needs, he would compensate for it. Presents were dealt with more care and ceremony than a winter coat. Period.

Frances dug into the dish, only to find it incredibly tasty. She should be used to it by now, that everything Hannibal cooked bordered on perfection. But it always surprised her.

— "Mmmm. This is delicious, darling. Thank you."

— "You're very welcome. A hearty meal it all it takes to make a good day"

The flicker of fear passed into her eyes, so quickly that he nearly missed it. Then it was discarded as she started thinking.

— "I might sketch something in advance regarding the coat. Do you think she will mind ?"

— "I doubt it. And we are customers after all"

For a moment, the silence was only interrupted by the clinging of forks on china plates. Until Frances started chuckling to herself, and he raised an interrogative eyebrow.

— "Hannibal, darling… Your cooking is to die for"

His amber eyes twinkled merrily as he absorbed the many layers of her dark humour. Joking about his occupation, even though she has stated her limit about killing, sent tingles in his chest. It meant she didn't see him as a monster; that she accepted him.

— "Many have", he responded with a smirk.

And albeit her smile slightly receded, she couldn't help giving him a look of pure, unrestrained love. Scooting her chair closer to him, she gently caressed the sleeve of his red cable knit sweater.

— "I love this sweater, it looks good on you, brings out a softer side than your suits"

Hannibal took a second to look down on his cable knitted chest before setting his cup of tea on the table.

— "It is more domestic", he shrugged.

Frances nodded, her eyes roaming over his chest, finding a few hairs escaping the V neckline. The fluidity of the fabric only emphasized his broad shoulders and lean muscles, but it also hugged his dynamic silhouette.

— "Yes. I like it. But in truth, everything looks good on you anyway"

A small smirk graced his features, and Frances could only be glad that Hannibal didn't fancy the beard like Tristan did; it offered more skin to kiss and brought more nuances on his expressions.

— "That's because I own only finely tailored pieces of clothing"

— "That's because you are an exquisite specimen of a man, Hannibal. Even nothing looks good on you… Especially nothing"

The psychiatrist peeked at the blush that marred her cheeks; he couldn't believe she had said that. Blunt and shy, passionate and restrained, never vulgar, but letting him know how much she appreciated his body. The perfect combination for him… she was so young.

— "I'm an old man for you, my beautiful."

And regret tinted his voice, for he sometimes though she deserved more. He knew, though, she would have no one else. And for sure, rightful indignation shone in her deep brown eyes.

— "You are perfect for me, I couldn't care less about your age. If you were younger, you would have less experience to share with me."

Her words made sense, still… she could be his daughter, for twenty-three years separated them.

— "And you are stunningly handsome, and fit, and I love you just the way you are"

A full smile found its way upon his lips before he could school his features, warmth spreading in his chest at hearing such a heartfelt declaration. Right. Perhaps he should forget this age issue altogether, and take whatever was offered. Tugging on her hand, he pulled her to him so that she sat on his lap. As soon as she was settled, Frances' whole form melted against his, tension leaving her body. Dark blue over deep red, the colors of their cashmere sweaters mingled like the strands of their hair. Opposite, and complementary.

— "You honor me, my beautiful", he purred in her ear.

— "The honor is mine. Get used to it"

Hannibal chuckled at the decisive tone of her voice. She truly was something, this woman, and he couldn't help but wonder how she had landed in his life. For a moment, they both relished in their respective presence, Frances feeling his heartbeat under her palm, he gently nuzzling her neck. Then the clock struck nine, and they both knew they needed to get ready for the day. Hannibal gently lifted Frances' legs to set them on the ground, and they made short work of the table and dishes as they talked.

— "How is Bella doing ?", Hannibal asked as he washed the teacups.

Frances sighed; that was a loaded question.

— "Physically, allright enough. But she has yet to convince Jack that she doesn't want chemo, and he is not ready to let go"

— "I understand why", came the psychiatrist's voice, his head still bent over the sink.

Frances picked up the drying cloth and started wiping the cups with a little more energy than usual.

— "It is pointless. There is not a chance in the world it will cure her. I support her heartily"

— "But she'll die faster"

She hated it, the way he said those words as if he had no care in the world. Maybe… maybe he didn't, for even if he called Jack his friend, his pain didn't permeate him. What a puzzling man, able to feel compassion, but choosing to keep the door closed. A defense mechanism for sure. It didn't matter, though, for she was the only one supporting Bella about her choice, and she knew she was arguing her point with a doctor. A man used to know better than the patient, a man with an incredible superior mind and a dramatic lack of empathy. All in all, it was a good exercise. At least, Will understood her point easily enough; being an empathic being through and through, he listened to her rants with genuine care. And a much less analytic mind than Hannibal.

— "Maybe. Maybe not. It might give her a chance to die with honour. And it is her decision, and no one else. Not Jack, nor the doctors. No one else is going to handle the pain, no one else will have to cope with vomiting her heart out, or loosing her hair"

— "The doctors are here to guide her, they will give her pain medication and counter substances for the ill effects"

France scoffed, eyeing the infuriating handsome man that faced her now, his deep golden eyes fixed on her face as if he was studying something. Or trying to understand.

— "You know the efficiency of medication on side effects of chemo as well as I do…"

Hannibal nodded. It could mean yes, it could mean no. So she went on.

— "Doctors can guide and advise all they want, but her decision is law. This is her life. A patient's choice cannot be altered, or manipulated even if the physician is genuinely sure that the outcome is better. We are masters of our lives, we take our decisions, we handle the consequences. As long as we know the true outcomes, it is up to the patient"

Hannibal cocked his head aside, surprised by the passion exuded by Frances on the subject. She advocated true freewill, the exact opposite of manipulation. Perhaps it was naïve, or perhaps the exact opposite, wisdom at its best. He knew Will shared her views; they had discussed it in his sessions. It was actually quite unsettling how much Will and Frances shared in terms of psyche; both empathic beings to the core. They met regularly now, bonding over past and present life, tying a tight knot like a pair of siblings. Yet, Frances chose him, Hannibal, to grace her life when she should be with a much younger, much more empathic man. It didn't make much sense, wasn't logically explained. The whims of the heart…

Pursing his lips to chase away the embryo of fear, Hannibal pushed a little further to decide whether his wife was just a naïve youth, or if her point made sense.

— "The patient sometimes doesn't have the intelligence to understand what's best for him"

He saw how his comment irked her; she had probably faced doctors that tried to override or belittle her opinion. His wife was a very intelligent woman with lots of medical knowledge, but she had to understand that her outstanding understanding of physiology and its consequences was not common. Not that he cared about Bella's decision; she would die either way. Frances bit her lip to gather her wits, her hand clenching on the kitchen counter before it relaxed.

— "I get what you mean, Hannibal. Bella is not stupid. Still, this is the fundamentals of respect. Any point of view is acceptable, but we are the only ones that can steer our lives, as long as we are ready to face the consequences"

For a moment, Hannibal wondered if Frances' outburst still concerned Bella's. By the fire that shone in her eyes, he decided that he didn't want to dig. He knew already. This was about him, and his choices. The psychiatrist didn't take the bait. Instead, he scooped Frances in his arms, the strain of hoisting her up deliciously negligible. Perhaps she was right, and he was fit enough for a young woman. His mouth approached her ear so that he could seductively make his point.

— "I hear your plight, my beautiful. Now I need some help taking this sweater off and buttoning my three piece suit, will you oblige ?"

Frances giggled, locking her arms around his neck. She loved the way he reminded her of his strength; there was always a good way to put that to use.

— "Anything for you, handsome"

With a smile, Hannibal brought her upstairs for a much-needed shower… hoping that she would be amenable to share it with him. As a matter of fact, she was only happy to oblige, her nightmare forgotten. For now.

As days turned to weeks, Bella weakened. The walks in the park became sittings, then turned to indoor activities. Until November approached and she started having trouble staying upright. Her coughing fits worsened, and the early snow didn't help her case. About three times a week, Frances spent time in her home, bringing biscuit and cakes, making tea, conversing. The two women, now, had bonded over Bella's cancer; they knew they were on borrowed time and deplored having met so late. But the genuine conversations brightened Bella just as much as they entertained Frances. They both loved Italy, were both curious, and discovered they had a lot in common. Too bad Bella would take it to her grave.

On this day, as heavy gusts of icy winds engulfed through the front door, Frances was grateful for her new coat. The seamstress had outdone herself, creating a masterpiece of dark blue wool with a long Victorian styled skirt and a large crossed collar. It was just magnificent, and Hannibal flatly refused to tell her its price. His eyes, though, twinkled as he helped her into it the first time they exited the boutique. She felt like a lady, treading at the arm of a handsome, educated man, impervious to the ghastly wind that had started blowing from the north. it just changed her life; she wasn't cold anymore. Paired with her high retro boots, Frances looked every part the Victorian lady. For now though, she had other things in mind. Bella's long whistle greeted her as she passed her front door; she was laying on the extended sofa in full view of the entrance, cushions propping her back up.

— "Damn, when you husband gets to it, he doesn't do it in half"

Frances blushed, hanging her new coat to let it dry from the snow.

— "Yes. It is a magnificent piece"

— "It suits you. You were cut to wear this sort of clothing, you shouldn't have to blush"

Coming from such a confident and beautiful woman, Frances couldn't help but feel humbled. She stepped into the room, spotting the already smoking teapot and biscuits laid out for them to partake in. It must be a good day if Bella was able to walk around and prepare things in advance.

— "That's a queenly present, Frances", the beautiful woman insisted. "Hannibal truly adores you"

— "Yeah. Albeit he said it was only 'tending to my needs' and no gift."

Bella's eyebrows shot up, an incredulous look passing over her pale face.

— "Right. Still…"

— "Yeah I know. Speaking of presents. Hannibal's birthday is less than a month away, and I have nothing to gift him with"

A stern look was sent her way, one that hid the uneasiness of speaking about the future. Would Bella be there, a month away, or buried in the ground already ?

— "Ah, so here you come, trading your presence against an idea from me ?"

Frances chuckled, taking her seat next to Bella.

— "Have some ?"

— "Not yet, but we'll find something. How old is he ?"

— "Er…"

Bella laughed at this, her mirth causing a coughing fit to erupt. Frances couldn't remember Hannibal's birth year if her life depended on it; he never shared the information. Knowing the date, though, already felt like a privilege such was the secret around his early life. As Bella claimed control over her abused lungs, she quirked an eyebrow knowingly.

— "So, Scorpio, uh? I'm not surprised"

— "Neither am I. But I'm not going to offer one so…"

An hour passed during which both women perused though the most ridiculous ideas. A cravat ? He had thousands. A ticket to the opera ? Hannibal had his seats already, and was picky. Restaurant ? He loved making his own food. A kitchen appliance ? Had it all. Wine ? Risky. Clothes ? Even more risky. Means, or course, were of no consequence; her bank account was thoroughly fed, courtesy of her husband. But Hannibal didn't seem to need anything. So it all reverted to finding something he didn't think of, like the frames for his drawings. Still, Frances treaded cautiously; she didn't want to impose any change in his way of life. To a controlling man like him, anything could trigger an instability. But she couldn't possibly confess that to Bella… Everything that passed her lips could potentially land in Jack Crawford's lap. Protecting Hannibal was embedded in her cells, so she was careful. Very, very careful.

Speaking of which…

The front door clanged rather abruptly as a very pissed Jack Crawford made a grand entrance. Not even shedding his hat, still flaked with snow, he stomped to the living room to address Frances.

— "Why are you here ?", he asked abruptly.

Frances sprang from the sofa, standing proud to rob the rude man from having the upper hand. Bella, appalled, gave her husband an incredulous look.

— "Jack ! Where are your manners?"

Jack Crawford was an impressive man, even more so when anger led him. His sheer bulk and determination had probably his subordinates trembling in their boots. And even if she knew he wouldn't harm her – he was an FBI agent after all – Frances' spine stiffened. Luckily, she had faced more dangerous men than him. Namely Tristan the day he nearly crushed her windpipe with his bare hands; nothing could possibly compare to his cold anger. The fact that she lived with a man who could kill her in a heartbeat also gave her plenty of practice to stand proud in the face of adversity.

— "Agent Crawford, it seems we need to discuss"

Her calm took him off guard, and his proud voice rose in the living room.

— "Like hell we do, you'll just pack your things and leave my wife alone"

— "Jack ! I asked her to come!", came Bella's protest.

— "I don't care", he yelled. "You're not asking again! That woman is dangerous!"

Frances frowned, watching Bella's pale face loose another notch of color. Her courage made no doubt, but even the strong, proud woman had limits.

— "Agent Crawford, I understand you do not like me, but think of Bella"

— "She's everything I ever think of !", he retorted hotly, throwing his hat on the sofa where she sat but a moment before.

Frances took a deep breath, trying to keep her voice calm to urge Jack to descend from his danger high and listen to reason.

— "Right, then you know I am only bringing company, nothing more"

— "And convinced her to shed the chemo, I am not stupid !"

— "Jack !"

Frances' eyes widened then, understanding why the man was so riled up. He though she was pushing her to die faster, trying to take her from him. The mask slipped into place, her eyes growing cold as Bella's agitation grew.

— "I suggest this conversation is taken elsewhere"

She then reached for Bella' hand under Jack's watchful gaze. The man was clearly out of it; she would never harm her friend.

— "Don't worry", she whispered to Bella before she picked her coat in the entrance and stepped outside.

The door clanged loudly behind Jack as he followed, and Frances keenly felt the absence of Hannibal by her side. The simple action of putting her arms into the sleeves by herself was awkward; he always helped her into her coat. Then, once she had draped the heavy wool around her frame, the young readhead lifted her head to meet Jack's thundering gaze.

— "Bella is smart enough to take her own decision. I merely abide by it, and support her. God knows she needs it"

She couldn't help the underlying cutting remark, for even Jack went against her decisions when it came to her health. The explosion didn't come, though, as Jack's square jaw tightened and his face hardened.

— "You play a dangerous game", he grounded.

— "I am not playing", she retorted just as calmly.

The man just straightened; with his coat, he now dwarfed her frame so badly that two of her could fit in between his shoulders. A few solitary flakes still flew around, by the main fall was over by now, leaving the surroundings coated in a quiet blanket. Such a contrast compared to the simmering man that faced her now.

— "So Dr Lecter, the infamous, single Dr Lecter gets engaged after meeting a woman twenty years younger in less than two weeks. Will Graham – a socially challenged individual – considers her a friend just as suddenly, and now you wound your way at my wife's bedside when she's vulnerable. How does that look ?"

Frances' eyebrows knitted for a moment, realizing how the facts only fueled his doubts. She couldn't blame an investigator for noticing the craziness of those facts.

— "Suspicious, I grant you"

Jack Crawford didn't expect admission. Damn, she wasn't as young as he thought her to be, even when the reddened nose and loose strands flying over her face made her appear so.

— "What are you after, money ?"

Frances snorted, insulted to the core; his insinuations were so preposterous! Even without knowing that Hannibal was a master mind manipulator, it gave him very little credit to think him ensnared by a gold digger.

— "Do you really think a skilled psychiatrist would allow someone like this to penetrate his inner circle, let alone marry him ?

Jack shrugged, his breath creating a halo before his face.

— "Wouldn't be the first man to be distracted by a pretty … face"

— "Insults will get you nowhere"

Jack smirked, happy that she had caught his hesitation. She was a lovely woman, but not the kind you expected to sleep for money. There simply was too much class, and a certain lack of vulgarity. And her little stunt killing Tobias the psychopath didn't sit well with him. That woman oozed danger. Still… if he could rile her up, perhaps he would get some answers. And if insulting her didn't work, there was only one alternative left…

— "We're all men in the end, even the impeccable Dr Lecter"

The young woman's eyes widened, her fists closing around the leather of her gloves. Bingo.

— "You do him no honour. They are dozens of high-class women that would enjoy sinking their claws in the delicious Dr Lecter. Not one managed to come close. His mind is not easily swayed "

— "Perhaps your talents are greater than others."

Frances couldn't keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

— "You mean cooking ?"

Jack snorted despite himself.

— "You know very well what I man. So where does Will come in, uh?"

That's it, he had crossed a line. He knew it. Insinuating she was sleeping with both men. But two could play this game… and she didn't take the bait he offered so readily. Was this woman made of steel ? A mirthless laugh escaped her, and suddenly, she was watching him with the quiet and dangerous poise of a predator. A shiver ran down his spine as she replied coldly.

— "I suggest you forgo this line of questioning"

— "Is that a threat ?"

— "Hardly, but Hannibal will be pissed when he hears it"

In truth, she wasn't quite sure about how much she would tell him. She didn't want to bury Jack Crawford before Bella, and this could very well end up in a sorry mess. Would Hannibal defend her honor, or dismiss the accusations altogether and let the storm pass ? He had always been a gentleman to her, but she didn't know what made him tick… would an insult to her trigger him ?

— "Of course, you'll run to your husband to report the accusations", he spat.

This time, the young woman looked at him as if he was a daft five years old.

— "Hannibal is a psychiatrist. He knows how to find answers. I can't lie to him. I DON'T lie to him, I wouldn't even dream of trying"

— "Know that I am not afraid of your husband, young lady"

Something flashed in her eyes, something she wasn't saying. Frances bit her tongue, refraining from screaming at him that he FUCKING should. Hannibal could scheme a hundred different ways to sabotage Crawford. At the last resort, he would take him. He might have to cheat a little – the man was downright bulky – but she knew Hannibal could kill him in a heartbeat. The katana in his corridor wasn't for show. Instead, she tried to attack another angle. Bella needed her, she just couldn't let go now.

— "Well, do consider Will then. You need him, if you rile both men, you're going to have issues working"

— "You'll turn them against me ?"

— "We're not at war, unless you make it so. And they are both very loyal people"

The man's gloved finger was suddenly pointed at her face and she swatted it away before he even registered it.

— "To you ? How did that even happen in such a short time ?"

Frances lifted her hands in surrender, sighing. Of course, he had no way of understanding the unbreakable link between the three of them. Only modern education prevented him from calling her a witch; Tristan's first reaction when she had landed in the midst of his brotherhood. What could she say ?

— "I have no answer to give you. Listen, I have nothing to offer but my genuine sorrow for what's to come, and my presence whenever you can't be with Bella."

Her earnest plea seemed to fall on deaf ears.

— "What did the air force want ?"

Frances froze; Another angle of attack, a very valid one. How was she going to handle this ? Fortunately, the front door opened to reveal a very shaken Bella. At once, Jack offered his arm for support. It didn't prevent his wife to glare at him with all her might, her expression downright horrified.

— "Jack ? What do you think you are doing ?"

Her tone was so hard that steel would have bent to its weight. Jack tried not to look sheepish, and Frances sadly realised that she would never see that expression on Hannibal's face. Guilt simply wasn't part of his emotion span, and she cringed inwardly. Her man was broken, even more than Tristan had been.

— "Questioning, it's my job", Jack retorted.

Bella ripped her arm from his, her glare intensifying.

— "Get back inside, and let me say goodbye to my friend properly"

Jack sighed.

— "Bella…"

— "NOW !", she shouted.

And the man sent Frances one last, harsh look before disappearing in the house. At once, Frances wrapped Bella into a tight hug, her reddened nose tickled by the tall woman's dark curly hair. Her shivering form seemed so frail in her arms, as if she was disappearing already.

— "I understand, you know", Frances told Bella. "Don't be too mad at him, he's just trying to protect you"

— "He's gone too far"

— "Maybe, I can handle it, don't worry. You shouldn't linger here, it's cold"

Bella untangled her arms from the young lady, her dark eyes so determined that Frances nearly shivered. The threat in her voice couldn't be mistaken as she said:

— "It will be colder inside, I swear to you"

And she left, leaving Frances under the porch, a few flakes brushing at her cheeks. What a woman !


	12. Chapter 12 - Embroidery

**_I have to admit that I am rather depressed. 38 people read the last chapter in the span of a day, and no one, literally NO ONE even bothered to review. Out of 38 people and 13 followers. I don't understand, really. It takes a lot of effort and time to write, correct and makes things realistic. I just wonder why people don't bother to drop a line. Seeing that other stories gather 3 to 4 reviews per chapter minimum in the same category, I can only conclude that there is something in the quality of my writing. It really is disheartening:'((for my 3 faithful reviewers who will recognise themselves, this is not addressed to you of course)_**

**_Anyway. Since I'm off for 10 days to the family, I thought I'd leave you a Christmas present. So there we go. Cheers and happy holidays!_**

A day passed without Dr Lecter trying to bite his head off. Then another. Jack's hands were tied; Bella had told him to shove it off. Literally. Either he shed his job and spent 24/7 with her, either he accepted that she had made friends with Dr Lecter's wife. Discrete investigation gave him nothing, nothing at all. And he wasn't about to bypass national security protocols to sniff into the air force's top secret base of Cheyenne Mountain. So Jack had no choice but to let it go.

Obviously, he had underestimated the woman. Her threat kept him on his toes; he wondered when she would talk to her husband. The fact that she had not – yet – left him bereft. Or perhaps she had, and Doctor Lecter didn't care about it. Who knew? The man was so cold, so unemotional that he might let it go altogether. What a weird couple… Anyway. He had other things on his plate, such as the latest inventive killer. Will and Alana were currently reporting their findings when his empathic profiler fished his cell phone out of his pocket, his eyebrows raising to his hairline as he read.

— "Are we bothering you, Will?" he patronised.

To his greatest surprise, the young man launched the device on his table.

— "Anything I should know about?"

Alana approached to read the text over his shoulder.

'Stay clear from Jack's office today – Frances.'

Alana's brows furrowed.

— "Do you have any idea what she means, Jack?"

Then a set of determined footsteps echoed in the corridor, and the FBI director groaned as Hannibal Lecter stormed in. Three-piece suit impeccably cut, dark red tie and midnight shirt, his eyes were smouldering ambers that threatened to spill their fire. Jack didn't bulge from his seat, attempting to appeal to Lecter's legendary politeness.

— "Excuse me Dr, we were in the middle of a meeting."

The man straightened, standing to his full height.

— "And I couldn't care less, agent Crawford. Now, I am here to warn you that the next time you feel the need to insult my wife, there will be retribution."

— "Are you threatening me, Dr Lecter?"

Will blinked, taking in the two men facing each other. For the very first time, Hannibal's anger seemed ready to burst forth, his body so coiled that he wondered if he was still breathing. And suddenly, he saw Tristan, unsheathing his sword. One move, one enemy on the ground. Cold and methodic, his anger channelled into the blade as he lay waste over a swarm of bodies. So many memories now assaulted him ever since Frances had opened the door. They shared some over lunch regularly, getting to know each other, discovering how well they worked together.

Hearing that Jack had insulted Frances caused his fists to tighten; he knew the heart of the woman now. But to Tristan, this was a declaration of war. The warrior of old would have slaughtered the man in a heartbeat… He loved her, protected her, just as she protected him. Like a pair of wolf mates.

But Jack seemed unaware of Hannibal's abilities, unafraid, persuaded that his training and strength would give him the upper hand against a psychiatrist too busy picking his wardrobe. Will knew better. Why was Jack not afraid? He should be afraid. Hannibal Lecter may be a polite and restrained man in this life, but he'd been the terror of his enemies in the past. And this anger, this primitive need to protect one's mate, the animalistic side just simmered below the surface. But then, Hannibal's eyes slightly squinted as he seemed to regain some composure. The vibes of aggression diminished as he answered in a clipped tone.

— "With a lawsuit, yes I am."

— "Why did you say, Jack?" asked Alana, dumbfounded by the reaction of her ever collected former mentor.

Hannibal spared her a furtive glance before focusing to Jack again. Never lose your enemy from sight else he'll lunge at you without warning. No wonder he loved cooking so much; Tristan had been dedicated to his knives.

— "He said…"

Then his tongue passed over his upper lip in a sneer, giving a little room to the deafening silence.

— "Jack accused Frances of being a gold-digger taking advantage of an old man's lust."

Alana gasped while Will remained thunderously silent. His adrenalin, though, was flowing freely through his veins. He understood, and shared Hannibal's wrath now, while Alana exclaimed her rightful indignation over a fellow female being treated unfairly.

— "Jack you couldn't!"

— "Be thankful my wife is protecting you," Dr Lecter ground out. "I know she retains some information to quell my anger."

Jack's poker face didn't flinch, but he inwardly sighed. He had to give credit to the woman, he'd never seen Hannibal in such a state of agitation, and wondered what would happen had she relayed his accusation that she also slept with Will. So … not just a pretty face. The incredible intensity of Dr Lecter's reaction – a man nothing could disturb – told him of his genuine affection. Did she share it, though?

The FBI agent stood up to be level with Dr Lecter; now he had said his piece, perhaps he would let him explain his reasons.

— "I was trying to rile her up to get information. I am trying to protect you both here."

Will butted in, his own anger piking at the insinuation.

— "Protect us from what?"

— "From her! That woman has secrets, she is dangerous."

— "Yes!" they both exclaimed at the same time.

— "But not to us," Will added.

Jack started. Hannibal and Will were now standing shoulder to shoulder, presenting a united front with a very mismatched style. Pissed, he pointed his hand at them like a school director scolding his students.

— "Look at you. That woman pops up, and you both act like you've been brainwashed. Don't you see?"

Alana's eyes suddenly squinted, giving Will an intense stare, then considered her mentor. A slight smirk adorned Hannibal's lips, a predatory gleam barely suppressed behind the poise. Jack couldn't make heads or tails of what caused this unsettling expression to bloom on the psychiatrist's face. The FBI agent couldn't imagine, for the life of him, that the famous Dr Lecter was amused to hear him issue warning about the dangerousness of his wife when she was the one repressing his killings … trying to protect them from the Chesapeake Ripper. No, he couldn't … and he would not find out for years.

Still, something clicked in Jack's brain.

— "You both know something I don't."

— "Yes," responded Hannibal. "My wife and I have no secrets."

And he was the only one in this room who could understand the depth of this statement. For no one except her knew he was the Chesapeake Ripper, and none save for him that she was the Keeper of Time. Not even Will at this point; he still thought she was a reincarnation like them.

— "What does the airforce want with her?" Jack asked Hannibal squarely.

Will frowned, unaware of this development.

— "What does the air force has to do with it, Jack?"

— "You tell me! When she woke up in hospital, the air force delegated a top secret group to interrogate her."

The young empath turned to Hannibal then, bold enough to meet his eyes for just a second.

— "Ask her, Will," he simply murmured.

— "Damn it, you are all siding up against me! Even my wife! Can you believe it?"

It was Alana who decided to bring this tense discussion to a close.

— "Is this an FBI case, Jack?"

— "No, there were no charges."

— "Then let it go."

The tall man slumped into his chair, accepting defeat; there was no way out of this but to wait and hope for the best. Dr Lecter, though, took a step forward and lay his hands on the desk, invading his personal space with his unsettling presence. Damn, the man knew how to be intimidating when he wanted.

— "I expect an apology to be made, else this collaboration ends."

A staring match ensued until Jack eventually nodded, and Lecter turned on his heels.

— "Friday, 4 pm, Will. Until then"

And the infamous Dr Lecter disappeared like a gust of wind, the sole of his very expensive shoes echoing in the corridor. Alana whistled slightly; she'd never seen him so riled up. In the meantime, Will picked up his phone.

'Too late. Shouting match just ended. Hannibal put up a great show – Will.'

Pale as a ghost, Frances left her cell phone on the sofa. Her throat constricted, and even the mouthful of tea refused to go down peacefully. A spasm shook her slender frame, then another. How she hoped that Hannibal had not exposed himself by her fault! The young woman slapped herself mentally; Dr Lecter has been fooling the FBI for years, he knew better than anyone to hide in plain sight. Hell, Tristan could hide anywhere. Scout one day, scout forever. But she couldn't help it. Worrying for him was a second nature. No one but her could look out for him, or protect him. Not one but her ever would.

The familiar constriction now wrapped her whole chest, and she started breathing very slowly, refusing to give in to the panic attack. It happened, sometimes, when anxiety managed to pass the solid walls of her minds. And this recurring nightmare just wouldn't leave her. Again and again, she dreamt of Hannibal, his blood pooling on the plush carpet of his office as he took his last breath, a letter opener embedded in his heart. There was a smile on his face, and love in his golden eyes. But his hot sticky blood wouldn't stop flowing … pooling on the battlefield once more, and she was powerless to stop it. She felt like a herald of doom, like the witness of an inescapable event.

— "Frances?" came Bella's concerned voice.

A new spasm shook her. She couldn't speak, could hardly breathe such was the tightening in her throat. The hot liquid still sat there, caught in the middle of her oesophagus, threatening to spill over in her lungs should her body fail at rerouting.

— "Frances, are you all right?"

This time, the beautiful woman tried to sit up. Frances held up her hand to temporise her, breathing slowly, evenly, until her throat slightly relaxed and the mouthful of tea descended in its rightful tube.

— "I'm good" she rasped. "It happens sometimes, stress symptoms."

Bella reclined on the pile of cushions that he become her second home, her pale features sinking a little.

— "Are you sure?"

— "Yes. Crisis averted. Now where were we?"

Bella seemed to ponder her answer before she blurted:

— "Will you tell me about it?"

— "About what?"

— "The reasons why you have panic attacks?"

Frances sighed. How could she refuse the truth to a dying woman? Well, not all truths, for the main hobby of Hannibal Lecter would never be shared. The rest, though … maybe it could serve a purpose.

— "You know what …? Maybe I might. But before that, I would have to tell you plenty of stories."

— "Well… I'm obviously not going anywhere. And I'm always motivated for a good story so, why not. Just let me see your work first,"

Smiling, the young woman unpacked the silken cloth she had bought to make a waistcoat for Hannibal's birthday – she had stolen the pattern from one of his favourite ones to get the size right. The perfect silver taffeta, found on the internet, held enough rigidity to allow a full-scale embroidery. Bella's long fingers caressed the cloth and she hummed her appreciation.

— "Sober and classy. The perfect combination for your husband"

— "Yes. I remember the museum of clothes I saw with my parents in Venice; they had plenty of waistcoats with lots of embroideries. It puzzled me at the time, but now I've seen how Hannibal pulls of a suit…."

A mischievous smile only greeted this statement; Bella, too, found Hannibal rather handsome. It was incredible, how she shipped them as a couple. A silent support, stating that no one should ever judge before seeing them together. To Bella, Frances and Hannibal were made for each other. Age difference be damned! So it amused her to see how her young friend was flustered by Dr Lecter's elegance and perfect body.

— "Yes. That man certainly can wear one."

— "Uh, uh. Anyway… Doing something with my hands if by far the only thing that he probably can't afford by himself. I just hope I'm not going to ruin it."

She had copied one of his drawings of Florence, and reproduced it on silk paper to try to embroider the image on the left part of the waistcoat. After many tries of placement and size of the image, simulated on her computer, she was satisfied with the result. Now remained to see if she could reproduce his charcoal drawing with white thread. Bella sent her a reassuring smile.

— "As long as you take your time, there's no reason. This is going to be a masterpiece, Frances. I doubt he will expect such a gift."

— "That's the whole point. I'm just afraid I'll ruin it. And then I'll have to sew it properly, with the lining and all. Hannibal is very meticulous with his clothing if the stitching is not right he'll never wear it."

— "Time to exercise your legendary composure. Jack will never tell you, but he was impressed that you didn't crumble at his feet"

Frances released a shuddering breath.

— "Right. Once you know all my dirty little secrets, you'll know how I can keep a level head facing your pissed husband. Until now, let's get to work."

And while Frances started stitching, thread by thread, the beautiful embroidery, she also started recounting the tale of the Keeper of time.

— "Once upon a time…"

— "In a land far, far away?"

Frances smiled; Bella couldn't be closer to the truth. This alternate reality, too, had Star Wars. It wasn't so different from hers, except for the absence of her parents, her friends and the sheer non-existence of a freaking Stargate!

— "Yes. Sort of. So, in my land far, far away, there was this young woman who came in possession of a magical necklace. The Keeper of Time created to regulate the little mishaps of history in the past, present and future, and on other worlds and alternate reality"

Bella snorted, which caused her to cough violently. The increasing intensity of her fits caused Frances to frown, but there was nothing she could do expect giving a little energy, and dosing her on the morphine the doctors gave her. At last, the beautiful woman regained her composure.

— "That's a big job," she said, an eyebrow lifted.

— "You have no idea," Frances chuckled before continuing her story. "One day, the Keeper of Time was called to land in a forest. There she met a man, a scout from the fifth century. A knight of the round table. Tall knight, long leather vest that had seen better days, recurve bow of Sarmatian design and a mane of shaggy hair with braids inside."

Bella giggled at her description; her laugh was infectious and Frances smiled at the memory of her arrival in the fifth century.

— "What a man!" she eventually said.

— "What a man indeed. His name was Tristan…"

Little by little, day by day, the embroidery took form, the white silky thread enlightening the silver piece with its light rather than the dark charcoal. The perfect counterpart to Hannibal's darkening of a pristine sheet. Stitch by stitch, Frances created light. And her story unfolded just the same way, her words painting the adventure of a young woman lost in the fifth century where knights of old seemed so alive that Bella was enraptured. It was easy to recall every single detail; she had just finished writing it for Will. And so the tale went on; The mighty story of King Arthur's knights at they fought, lived and died for Briton. Of Galahad, the young pup who hated killing, but could shoot a man a hundred feet away on his galloping horse. The Tale of Arthur's stand upon Badon Hill, of Dagonet's near demise on an icy lake, of Guinevere, the woad woman. The tale of The Keeper of Time and Tristan as they were separated on the battlefield, of his blood soaking the ground as she tried to save him with by giving her own life force, and failing.

As Frances recounted the last moments of Tristan's life, she had to set her work aside to refrain from tainting it with her tears. Even if she had found him anew under the traits of Hannibal, the traumatic even still left a gaping wound in her heart.

And that day, Bella understood Frances' secret, and the reason why she had panic attacks and post-traumatic stress disorder. She should have her committed, really. Magic and such didn't exist… Right?

— "That woman. The Keeper of Time. It was you?" she breathed.

Frances turned to Bella, her hazel eyes diving into the older woman's gaze to assess whether she was ready to accept the truth. And for sure, her death seemed to bring her a new state of clairvoyance, for she had already drawn the conclusion by herself.

— "Aye. Me, and not me at the same time. I was cloned, and dumped in this world by error."

— "Cloned? A mistake from whom?"

Damn, she couldn't delve too much into the details of her cloning and of middle earth. It would be too much to take in at once.

— "That's another long story I'll tell you about."

— "So this is why you appeared out of nowhere with no identity."

— "Yes. I wasn't born in this reality."

For a moment, Frances pondered how to bring forth the subject of reincarnation. For it had been her goal all along, to tell her dying friend that death wasn't the end.

— "Bella, listen to me. I had nothing left in this world, it is not mine. My parents never existed there, my friends are not my friends because I never existed. I was quite ready to lose it, really. But I found Tristan again, under the traits of Hannibal."

Bella gasped, watching her with wide eyes.

— "Are you saying …?"

— "Yes. And Will… I knew him as Galahad. They found each other as well, but were unaware of it. Still, they felt it in their core. That bond can never be erased. Kindred souls that chose to come back and meet again, to side in the face of adversity."

Her friend's head turned left and right, incredulous as the news sank.

— "Are you speaking reincarnation?"

— "Yes. So now you find me crazy?"

Silence stretched a little, and Frances gathered her threads and needles. The embroidery was close to completion, and it looked even better than she had imagined. Now came the worst part; cut the cloth to sew it into a waistcoat without ruining the design. Lost in her contemplation, she almost didn't hear Bella's sharp intake of breath beside her.

— "I should, really. But this explains a lot."

Frances' attention returned to Bella, a new-found respect rising from the woman's ability to adapt to such a crazy notion. God knew Hannibal has resisted … until memories had flooded him mercilessly.

— "Yes. This is why Jack is suspicious. He has every reason to. He may not have handled it with a lot of politeness, but he's right, somehow. Except that he mistakes my motives. I would never hurt you, or Hannibal. I am a protector, always have, always will, even if I am no more the Keeper of Time"

Had her lungs been in better shape, Bella would have whistled. Her deep, rich voice only conveyed her surprise.

— "Wow. I have trouble wrapping my mind around it."

Frances gave her a lopsided smile; an expression loaded with memories, good and bad alike.

— "It took me a while as well. Imagine my face the first time I landed in ancient Roma, at sixteen, with nothing but the clothes on my back. Modern student clothes at that"

The image caused Bella to chuckle.

— "I can barely fathom. How many missions have you completed?"

— "Three. King Arthur's reign was the last."

— "I guess you've seen some pretty gruesome things in the fifth century."

Frances grimaced at that.

— "Believe me, they were not the worst. But yeah. I've aged. PTSD and all. But it taught me a lot. How to handle pressure, and charismatic individuals"

— "No shit! I understand how you can stand up to Jack now."

The young woman quirked an eyebrow mockingly.

— "Well, you do."

— "He's my husband. Of course I do"

Her easy dismissal earned a respectful nod from Frances. Husband or not, Bella stood her ground admirably against the force of nature that was agent Crawford.

— "Tristan was downright terrifying when pissed… And I do not mention Lord Elrond. Anyway. The reason I told you all this, Bella, is because you might find Jack again someday, like I found Tristan."

This time, the older woman snorted as she crashed against the cushions.

— "What, fifteen hundred years from now?"

Frances cringed. Was it wishful thinking?

— "Maybe. I don't know, I'm sorry. I just discovered this year that our soul survives, and we can descend again and met the ones we love again. It is a new concept for me as well."

The silence wasn't heavy as both women considered the implications of soul recycling, lost in their own thoughts. It was incredible, how Hannibal resembled Tristan – physically – even if the material came from different parents. As if the soul moulded the body to fit its inner desires. Even the golden pecks into his amber eyes were the same. And Galahad … same hair, same features, same inner beauty, same outward shyness and wounds.

Bella's slight movement caught her gaze, and Frances found herself staring into the older woman's soul. Her pain, bared for her to see, constricted her heart painfully.

— "I am afraid Frances. I don't know what Jack will do when I'm gone."

— "I know…"

— "Well, Keeper of Time. It seems that neither of us can escape the future."

Bella's words caused Frances' heart to miss a beat, her nightmare coming full front. Hannibal's blood as he smiled, the soaked carpet of his office… The eventually of his death hurt so badly that she had to struggle to take a breath.

— "Did you resent Tristan for attacking that Saxon?"

Frances frowned, taken aback by the question.

— "I hated him at first, for choosing to leave me. But then I realised he chose an honourable death. I just missed him so much."

— "Sometimes I think Jack hates me."

Understanding dawned upon Frances; the parallel between Bella's choice not to take chemo, and Tristan's honourable end making its way into her mind.

— "He is not ready to lose you like I was not ready to lose Tristan."

And Frances hated herself for her wavering voice.

— "We are never ready. I am not. But I accept it now. Just like Tristan had accepted his death before you even knew it."

— "What do you mean?" the young woman breathed.

— "He said not to save him, right? When you dreamt of the round table, and he was absent. He told you not to save him. He knew."

A lone tear escaped Frances' eyes, and she wiped it away. Bella's too thin hand landed on hers, squeezing tight.

— "You deserve your happiness now. Seize it, and make the most of it with the man you love. God knows time is too short."

Frances nodded, biting her lip. If only she knew that beautiful woman, the shreds of Tristan's soul that made Hannibal today. How he'd been torn apart, and built all wrong again. That she sucked every single minute of his presence because tomorrow, it could all crumble to dust. Perhaps she was meant to learn this new way of embracing life; like every moment was the last. How she loved her man, even broken and lustful for blood. Was there even a future for them?

— "Thank you, Frances. It gives me hope."

— "Hope is sometimes all we have", she sighed, channeling one of Aragorn's – Estel, hope – lines.

— "Could you do something for me, a gift for Jack when I'm gone?"

— "Anything Bella"

— "Well, I have this idea…"

This very evening, Frances clung to Hannibal as if he would dissolve in her arms. And as they moved in unison, locked into a lover's embrace, her eyes took in every single detail that made him the man she once knew, and the man he was today. She couldn't get enough of him, even though, at this very moment, every single part of her skin was in contact with his, even though she engulfed him entirely and felt him inside her, straddling him in the silky soft sheets. The wave that swept her away was so powerful that she cried out, one of her arms pulling at his shoulders, the other locked upon his head, tousling his hair. Her body shook from its intensity, instinctively tightening around his.

And Hannibal couldn't understand why her gaze never left his, why she regarded him like a miracle, like he was the only beacon of light in the darkness. But her eyes were so earnest, her soul bared for him to fathom the immensity of her love, that he did not question it. It was like a blow from a war hammer, so strong, so impossibly powerful that it fuelled his veins with purpose. That woman loved him more than her own life.

Let her believe that the strength of their bond could fix him somehow. For now, her affection fed him enough that he would dedicate his life to her. For now…

_Three weeks later_

Bella died in her garden, lying in a layer of fresh snow. Frances was by her side when she took the remaining pills of morphine, by her side still when Jack rushed in, alarmed by his wife's request that he came, fast. The former Keeper of Time cried her friend's death more than her husband did, for Jack Crawford was a tough, controlled man. But when he found the handkerchief in her hand – her last present – embroidered with a portrait of her, smiling at him, tears leaked down his face.

The special agent didn't find it in him to punch the redhead, nor to thank her. He didn't quite know where his feelings lay regarding her part in Bella's death. It would take years for him to close the gaping wound in his chest. By then, perhaps he would open his mind anew, and realise what Frances' presence had brought his wife in the end. But not now … not now.

**_So, there are a lot of discussions about Frances' mission to King Arthur's world. For those interested, it is called 'All Hail to the King' and can be found in the King Arthur section. You will find Tristan (Mads Mikkelsen) and Galahad (Hugh Dancy) there _**


	13. Chapter 13 - Death

**_Thank you, Koba, for your review. Yes, PTSD is a bitch... She needs someone to talk to. As usual, your comments made my day! Everything in italics is French._**

**_And to all of you, a happy new year._**

The brusque movement caused a few tomato slices to jump from the blade and land on the floor, splashing her legs in the process. Pissed beyond measure at her clumsiness – she'd poured water over her lap earlier, and hurt her shoulder on the door as well – Frances barely refrained from yelling, releasing a string of annoyed curses instead.

— "Holy mother of… God damn it. I'm such a … _cruche_ (dumbo)!"

The blade shook in her hands. The world seemed intend on making her miserable. Releasing a heavy sigh, Frances realised that her vision was blurring. She was tired … so tired. The sadness consumed her entirely, or was she coming down with something? Frozen in the spotless kitchen except for her clumsy handiwork, the young woman tried to calm her nerves with deep breaths.

A set of warm hands suddenly pried the knife from her grasp, the touch familiar and oddly comforting. Then, the tall presence dragged her into an awkward embrace. Frances breathed in Hannibal's familiar scent, his soothing fragrance surrounding her as his arms wound around her small frame to provide comfort. She returned his embrace faintly, her mind miles away from the kitchen, wondering why his presence brought such relief when he could break her neck in a heartbeat. But Hannibal had always cared for her until now. The sturdiness of his tall frame and hard muscles provided a safe place for her to break down. Yet, she didn't.

His hand eventually led her to sit on his favourite chair, on the other side of the counter. Frances's body didn't even react, following his lead without thinking. Then a glass appeared in her hand. A slight sniff told her it was rum, the only strong alcohol she ever drank. Then Hannibal's amber eyes locked with her; he was crouching in front of her, his hand caressing her thigh, leaving a trail of warmth and comfort.

— "Drink to her memory, Frances. You are allowed to grieve for a friend."

The young woman nodded, taking a sip of the drink. It was, of course, the best rum she'd ever tasted. Even more since she'd dropped several vanilla pods inside. Yes, she was mourning for Bella, the only female friend she had made in forever. Not in public though, neither in front of him. She didn't know why, something to do about his sturdiness. Her self-preservation asked to show no weakness; nit was stupid really, for she knew the predator in him could sense her distress. But Hannibal … he seemed so unaffected. He's come for the funeral, of course, to support his friend Jack Crawford. Yet, nothing had changed in his routine nor his facial expressions. As if the beautiful soul of Bella has not left the world … or never entered his.

— "What about you?" she asked.

Hannibal stood, his tailored cream shirt flexing around his shoulders as he reached for his own drink on the kitchen counter. Waistcoat and jacket discarded, dark honey hair flowing freely across the left side of his face, the psychiatrist almost looked casual. The impassive mask, though, reminded her how dangerous and controlled he could be.

— "I was not gifted with the amount of empathy you have, Frances."

Hannibal took a sip of his own poison – Whiskey – eyes daring her to delve deeper. And she did. Not out of malice, or reproach, but out of love.

— "How do you feel?"

There was not an inch of judgement in her voice; this was the reason why Hannibal considered answering her question truthfully. No matter who he was and the people he killed without remorse, Frances didn't regard him with contempt or disgust. She tried to understand him, a little like Will Graham tried to wear his skin on crime scenes. Coating the whiskey around his tongue, Hannibal licked his lips before answering.

— "Bella was a fine woman, but no friend of mine."

— "What about Jack's pain?"

— "I am sorry for his loss. My mind sympathises, but my heart … it is too far away from me, do you understand?"

Silence greeted his statement, and for a moment, Hannibal wondered if he had gone too far. What would happen if the young woman decided he was a heartless bastard and decided to leave? Many times already, he could have sworn she would walk away. Frances was strong, stronger than most, yet she kept coming back to him. She fought with him sometimes, teeth and nails, unafraid of his nature, standing up for her beliefs. Weakness that she would return to him, or admirable resilience? Hannibal had yet to decide. For now, he could almost hear the wheels running in her mind; she was absorbing the information to paint a picture of his mind, to understand his way of thinking. Mapping his own weaknesses in terms of empathy, assessing how far he could go. And accepting it, adapting once more to his peculiar psychology.

And once her analysis was over, she searched for his gaze and held it so intensely that he nearly shivered.

— "Would you cry over me if I died?"

The statement nearly shocked him… Nearly, but not entirely. It was a valid question, to which he had no answer. Frowning, he searched his mind to form an honest statement. He knew his hesitation could only hurt her. Still, she couldn't be oblivious since she had felt compelled to ask, and he tried his very best to never lie.

— "I would miss your wit, and your presence. I would miss your skin, and your company… I would probably cry, yes."

Probably.

Glass of champagne in one hand, impeccable suit clinging to his lean body, hair slicked back in his favourite style, Hannibal was in his element as he navigated the throng of psychiatrists that had attended the conference. His easy smile, practised over many years of socialising, easily fooled people into thinking he was pleased. Never had he voiced his utter suspicions about the science they all called psychiatry. For even if he relished in probing the mind, Hannibal despised all those doctors who thought they understood the human condition by dissecting its childhood. Putting them in little boxes, naming syndromes, relishing in a newfound case for everyone to gush over. Yet no one could have possibly named what he was. Nor a psychopath, nor a sociopath, maniac even less, bipolar? Not even close.

Hannibal didn't fit anywhere, and he relished in that fact, his intelligence swimming over their heads as they congratulated themselves on the latest finds about Stockholm's syndrome, or the new Oedipal complex. The presence of Alana Bloom by his side had made the conference bearable. Her comments, questions and pointed remarks showed how unafraid she was of the entity of eminent figures that loomed on stage. He was proud to see that her critical mind had beneficiated from his teachings; a worthy student. For now, though, she was engrossed in a debate he absolutely refused to linger upon about young children. So Hannibal wandered a little further, studying people, engaging in conversation here and there, his three-piece suit still in pristine condition despite the buffet. The psychiatrist had not eaten much; he would cook at home. A warm buzz spread in his limbs at the thought. He had a wife now, awaiting his return. And since she had woken a little stiff – her usual grace was missing this morning – she would probably get a massage afterwards. Bella's death had taken a toll on her mood, and he thrived to care for her as well as he could. It was weird, to feel needed; it gave him purpose.

The sudden vibrations of his phone in his outer pocket had him excuse himself from a boring conversation and a flirty lady. Aside Jack, Frances and Will, no one should have triggered the device to set off. A quick glance at the screen told him it was the latter. Probably an FBI emergency, for Will was perfectly aware of his attendance at the conference, thanks to Alana. Little by little, those two danced around each other. His treatment for encephalitis had brought Will a new stability to which Alana responded with eagerness. How long before those two became romantically involved? Her innocence and naivety told him she could be good for Will. The psychiatrist sighed, considering how far he'd strayed from the path he had set into motion when first meeting Will Graham. Discovering of their mutual past as brothers in arms had shifted his perspective, putting a stop to his mind games to try to mend a damaged brotherhood. Frances' plea had touched him; she wouldn't have to come between the two of them anymore. Galahad and Tristan. Since the young woman had killed for him, he didn't feel the need to pry the killer out of Will so acutely. A soul for a soul. This is what Tristan would have done at the time, goading his younger brother until he relented to his very nature. But he was Tristan no more.

Picking up the line, Hannibal answered quickly.

— "Hello Will. Is everything all right?"

— "Er. I'm not sure. Have you heard of your wife this afternoon?"

Hannibal frowned, uneasiness creeping up his spine at Will's uncertain tone. Suddenly, his mind wasn't so focused on the lady – a false blonde who would never understand his recent fondness for redheads – whose eyes were still glued on his form.

— "No, I haven't. Weren't you supposed to meet for lunch?"

— "We did. She was feeling a little feverish, and left early."

Hannibal froze. Fever … that would explain the stiffness. Nothing too alarming, but Will was downright panicked.

— "I've been trying to call after my latest class, her phone keeps ringing but I can't reach her."

'Not so abnormal,' screamed Dr Lecter's rational brain. Frances wasn't very assiduous when it came to mobile phones. She frequently forgot her device in her purse, or didn't hear it whenever she worked on a text, or in the workshop he had set up for her sewing and embroidery.

— "When was that?" came his smooth voice, too calm for Will's taste.

— "4 pm. If I go it will take me more than an hour to your house."

Hannibal checked at his watch. 6:18 pm, the device tightly held into his right hand. For even if his mind found a thousand excuses why he shouldn't worry, his heart clenched painfully. Will's voice alone was the testimony that he should move, fast. His friend's guts always proved right.

— "I'm on my way, Will."

He didn't spare a look behind, didn't even retrieve his coat from the locker as he jogged into the parking lot. The engine roared to life, and he felt every bit like a stressed out European as he made it home in record time. Still, the thirty minutes ticked by so slowly that all kinds of scenarios passed through his head. Had she made it home safe? Encountered another killer, looking for him, on the way back? Could it be someone following Will? Or she had an accident? Or was she soaking into a hot bath, her phone discarded in a corner, all muscles relaxed as she waited for him. Hannibal shuddered, trying to rein his running mind. He that usually considered all possibilities coldly couldn't shake the angst that squeezed his chest. Never before had he been so irrational. Taking a deep breath, Hannibal exited the highway. Five more minutes, and he would probably barge in, find her resting with her phone in silent mode, and call Will back to berate him, or reassure him, or both.

The automatic entrance gate had never been so slow, but he could clearly see her blue car parked in front of the house. He didn't spare more than half a second for the memory that burst forth – Frances laying conditions for her car: blue, small, manual transmission to be in control. That was it. No condition on motorisation, equipment or fancy upholstery. Needless to say, that she had baffled more than one seller, much to his amusement. Had she thrived for concealment; Frances would never have managed to pass unnoticed. She stood out so easily, hair, poise and character alike. A magical being… And the blue car indicated she was home. Hannibal pulled his handbrake a little too tight, his Bentley protesting in a groan. But he couldn't care less. Springing from the driver's seat like a devil from a box, the impeccable psychiatrist climbed the front steps two at a time, long legs pumping as he fished the keys out of his pocket. The door was locked, and he fumbled slightly with the bolt before the heavy front door gave way. Silence greeted him, and in the background, the gentle cracking of a fire.

— "Frances, are you home?" he called, trying to modulate the worry in his voice.

No response. Hannibal's strides led him to the kitchen, finding it empty, then the dining room.

— "My beautiful?"

Nothing. Tap, tap tap. His hard soles echoed on the wooden floor; he wasn't even trying to remain stealthy. Never before had he cursed the grandness of his house, yet now, it only made more ground to cover. His thundering heart was his only companion as he trod through the mansion.

At last, Hannibal popped his head into the small living room where Frances loved to take refuge with a book. The gentle glow of the fire illuminated her sleeping silhouette, red hair glowing in the orange light. A great sigh of relief escaped his lips as he took in her slumped form and peaceful expression. It lasted but a second. As his eyes roamed her face, the bead of sweat, reddened cheeks and plastered hair set his alarm bells.

— "Frances!" he called, kneeling beside her.

She didn't seem to hear him, and he gently set his hand on her forehead. Her skin was burning! Troubled, Hannibal tried to shake her out of her slumber.

— "Wake up, beautiful," he coaxed, seizing her arms.

The young woman cracked an eye open, her vision blurry at best as she tried to focus. Then a smile crept on her features.

— "Nice suit … dashing"

The psychiatrist couldn't believe his ears. The woman was so sick that she didn't hear her phone blazing beside her and could have set fire to hell, and her first through was to compliment him on his appearance! Had he not been so worried, her words would have melted his heart. As it was, his medical background made his spine stiffen.

— "You're ill, why didn't you call me?"

Frances' lips trembled.

— "Your conference … no worry"

Her eyes darted to her phone sheepishly. Beside them lay a set of pills, antibiotics by the looks of it, and a paper with blood test results. Hannibal picked it up, reading the figures twice before his stomach plummeted.

— "This is a massive infection, Frances. It is serious."

The young woman sent him a contrite look, her body shaking uncontrollably as she seemed to fight the haze of her mind. Hannibal's hands came to her shoulders, supporting her.

— "I know. I took the pills … and sleep."

The effort was too great, and she suddenly slumped against him, her eyes closing anew. Hannibal's heart leapt into his throat, and he picked her up. Her weight wasn't so great, and the adrenalin pumping through his veins screamed at him to hurry. Rushing upstairs, he made a beeline for his room; he had never been so glad for his medical supplies than today. Setting her on his bed, Hannibal rushed to get his suitcase, fishing out the blood pressure armband. Her heartbeat was so faint that he nearly missed it. 80. Damn. Septic shock. One more hour, and she would be dead. Perhaps … perhaps it was already too late.

Hannibal paused. If she died he would be free to kill again, free to play the mind, and push others to kill to see if he was the monster they said he was. Nights on his own, hunting … the memory called the thrill to flow in his veins, the need surfacing, the incredible empowerment of taking one life. He would be back at square one. Free, powerful, unleashed.

Alone.

No one to come home to, no one to give a piece of mind over ethics … or his lack of thereof. About his food, and how delicious it was. About his drawing, and how gifted he was. No one to kiss, no one to cherish, no special smile reserved only for him. A cold, old mansion with not a shred of life within. He would never again feel her writhing in his arms, undone by his ministrations. No one to love, no one that loved him back. And suddenly his chest constricted, and Hannibal was afraid. For the first time since forever, afraid to lose the little bit of light that radiated into his life for the grace of her presence.

Anger threatened to take over, soon replaced by a wave of panic. Hannibal forced all those feelings down, surprised at their intensity, and dialled 911. As the tone rang, he fished out a syringe and several vials of antibiotics. His usual poise returned, his hands steady as he spoke to the emergency lady, at the same time administering the vials to his precious wife. For he knew, now, that even if he might never be able to love her properly, Frances held a special place in his heart. Waiting for the paramedics to show up, Hannibal gathered the young woman into his arms like a man lost at sea would hold his lifeline. The prospect of losing her was suddenly too tangible to ignore. Like a cliff in a moonless night, with angry waters awaiting to swallow him whole. The doors she had opened, the possibilities of his heart… No, he couldn't let go now, couldn't revert to being alone. So he held fast, speaking in her hear, caressing her face, and professing his love for the first time in his life. She would never know, but he hoped that her soul was listening.

**_Please hit that little button and leave a review for this new year !_**


	14. Chapter 14 - Hospital

**_Special message to Koba: I have to say I am impressed that you are reading this even if you didn't watch the Hannibal show. Thank you, a lot. As for Jack Crawford, he is a good man, but also used to protect rather brutally those he cares about. His suspicions are not unfounded, and he is used to twisted individuals (such as Hannibal … although he doesn't know he's the killer he is running after aha) so his treatment of Frances is understandable._**

**_Regarding Hannibal, it is a difficult subject. He has empathy and is not a psychopath as per standard definition because he was raised by loving parents. BUT, the trauma he went through as a child twisted it all, making him build walls that are not easily bypassed. Overall and psychology wise, Hannibal is unsortable._**

The steady beep was annoying. Its pitch too high for her taste, its sound just enough to prevent her from getting back to sleep. What the hell had compelled her to buy such an annoying machine? Hr brow furrowed… no, she couldn't remember buying one. Beep, beep, beep. Perhaps workers in the post office below her French apartment? Weird; she was sure the renovations were over by now. Beep, beep. It seemed like the steady alarm of a truck backing up in the street. Phew, damn noisy city; she would need the rest to get this day over with. If she wasn't mistaken, today was geochemistry and material resistance. Ugh! Fortunately, the afternoon would be spent on cartography, a much better perspective. She felt warm, and sweaty, her body propped up awkwardly. Frances wanted to curl aside to get back to sleep, but her body refused to respond. What the hell! Beep, beep. Damn it! What was it with this machine! How long would this truck back up for? Its alarm was so noisy that it felt like it was inside her bedroom.

Frances eventually lost the fight, relinquishing the little hold on sleep she was trying to regain. Opening her eyes, she blinked several times before realising she wasn't in her room anymore. Appliances, dim light and horrible wall painting said it all. Hospital. The young woman recoiled internally; she hated hospitals. Condescending people, stifling atmosphere and the feeling of being a helpless child always crushed her whenever she set foot in a hospital. Her right arm was hooked up to an IV set above her head and her left … on her left slept a man whose hand dwarfed hers, tightly enclosed around her small fingers. She didn't need to study his face, for his presence and smell alone sold him.

Hannibal.

Her husband to be.

A tear ran down Frances' cheek and she bit her lip, refraining the sob that tightened her chest. She wasn't home, in France, about to graduate in geology. She was there, in this world, estranged from her past and family and quite alone in the world. No cousin, no parents, no brothers, no schoolmates, no Daniel Jackson and SGC friends, no Mulder, no past … no necklace to at least be the Keeper of Time. Nothing left… Except for the cannibalistic killer that she loved, and his more or less friend - the unstable empath - Will Graham. What a fucked-up life! And she'd just lost Bella to cancer, helping her die in her backyard. Right. This was her life now. Well … it sucked.

Beep, beep, beep.

Her heart rate was increasing due to the realisation of her predicament. Stupid machine that couldn't even leave her to wallow in misery without pointing its digital finger in denonciation. Hospital, the place where privacy held no name, dignity no sway, and intimate wasn't even a word! A place where boundaries didn't exist anymore… In a movement of pure exasperation, Frances tore the pads stuck on her chest with a wince. It stung like hell, but damn it, it felt good to take her anger upon this blasted machine. For a blessed second, the heart rate monitor seemed content to shut its mouth until…

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP

Frances groaned, realising her mistake. Of course, the monitor would wail bloody murder at the loss of signal! The noise jolted Hannibal awake; he'd never been a heavy sleeper but even a dead man would have jumped at the sound. His frantic eyes jumped first to the flat line on the screen – doctor one day, doctor forever – then to her form. How fitting, for a man so far from his emotions, to check the machine first to know whether she was dead or alive ! The sarcasm fled her the instant they locked eyes, pure relief washing over him. Hannibal bent over the bed, resting his forehead upon the crown of her head with a shuddering sigh.

Never had she seen Hannibal so shaken; it had to be a first. And when his arms wound around her shoulders in a warm embrace Frances's brain flatlined. Surrounded by him, his scent permeating, she felt safe and content. Tears ran down her face of their own accord, the joy of recognising him, his very essence, unwinding her tense body.

— "I am glad you are awake," he whispered into her ear before crushing her to his chest.

She didn't have time to answer as a flock of nurses and doctor rushed into the room in panic. Frances tightened her hold on Hannibal in fear; she'd found him anew, she wasn't about to let go now. The rest of the world could go to hell for all she cared. The young woman buried her face into his chest, anchoring herself to his unwavering strengh. With his body winding around hers, she didn't fear the world anymore, didn't fear the prodding doctors nor their blatant disregard for privacy. Hannibal was her lifeline, the only remaining soul that kept her sane and grounded in this angry world.

— "Sir ! Get away from her! She's flatlined!" a man shouted.

Hannibal's soothing voice didn't echo loudly in the room, but it reached its destination nonetheless. Something about his authority that couldn't be ignored, the words of an alpha male to lesser men.

— "There's no need. Frances simply pulled at the wires upon waking, that is all."

Hannibal's voice rumbled in his chest, permeating through hers. In the room, the flurry of activity seemed to come to a standstill, all sounds and voices dying at this simple statement. The machine was silenced, it irritating beeeeep dying without a squeak.

— "Let me see", came the same stern voice that had ordered Hannibal to get away from her.

As if !

— "Give us a minute"

An indignant sneer answered the psychiatrist's statement, and Frances could imagine easily the affronted look upon his face.

— "Sir !"

— "I was surgeon, I know what I am doing"

Hannibal's tone was final, and even if the doctor was probably seething by now, several sets of footsteps retreated in the corridor. Playing the surgeon card definitely did the trick; it only stated he had more years behind his belt than the doctor he had just kicked out. Sly man… her man ! For a moment, there was only silence as Hannibal hugged her. Heartbeats synchronized as thin coton vibrated, chest to chest. Frances' breathing evened out, panic receding as her muscles relaxed in the strong hold of her husband. Then, at last, Hannibal asked if she was ready to see the doctor and his nurse. Frances nodded, less than eager to be prodded around.

They performed the standard checks – temperature, blood pressure, incredibly stupid questions … – until they hooked her again to the horrible machine and walked away. All this time, Hannibal kept her hand enclosed in his, grounding her as he sensed her unease. Visibly, Frances disliked doctors. It was ironic, for a woman used to gruesome battlefields in the fifth century … who knew what story laid beyond the closed doors of her mind. Ironic as well, for she was married to one.

— "Hannibal?"

Her voice was subdued, so tired.

— "Yes?" he answered, kissing her temple tenderly.

— "Is there any way to kill the sound of that blasted machine?"

Her request was so unexpected that laugher bubbled into his chest. She saw the tension leave his shoulders as he authorised himself to relax. Standing up, Hannibal pushed one button and arched an eyebrow at her, understanding the reason why she'd nearly torn the wires out of her chest. The noise annoyed her.

— "There, no need to pull your skin out next time"

— "_Merci, mon amour_" (Thank you, my love)

For a moment, they stared at each other, unsure about what needed to be said. Frances kept her mouth shut, the weight of her sadness heavy over her chest, constricting her throat. And although Hannibal's gaze was unguarded – a rare feat – the intensity of his regard for her failed at cheering her up. The young woman's eyes landed on her lap. She must look a fright, and she wondered how Hannibal managed to be so handsome even with circles under his eyes and tousled hair. That man was never caught unaware, never shed his persona … almost never. The closest she came to catch him undone was in bed, when he eventually shed his armour – the three-piece suit – and let her take control of their lovemaking. And not always…

It was Hannibal who eventually broke the silence, his fingers grazing her chin to call her back to him. Something had shifted in his features, they were less guarded. Perhaps it was the exhaustion taking its toll, or perhaps he was ready to let her in. Still, his golden-flecked eyes were intense as he softly said:

— "I'll thrive to take better care of you but you must help me, little fairy."

Frances' eyebrows shot up, shocked.

— "New nickname?"

Her voice was slightly hoarse, her throat dry and she would have given a kingdom for a glass of water. But the discomfort was forgotten as uncertainty passed over Hannibal's features, an expression so foreign that it caused her to frown. How incredible, to see her man so unsettled!

— "Isn't that what Tristan called you?" he asked.

— "Yes. But now I am no Keeper of time. Just Frances. And you are not Tristan, Hannibal."

The psychiatrist caressed her cheek gently, his tongue passing over his upper teeth in a gesture she had come to associate with nervousness.

— "Do you wish I were?" he asked.

— "No."

There was much she wanted to say, but her brain was too fuzzy to find the proper words. Sill, the very faint smile that graced Hannibal's gorgeous lips told her he understood her meaning. And truth be told, it removed such a weight from his shoulders! For long, Hannibal had feared that Frances only searched for the dead knight she fell in love with, staying with him because of his past life as Tristan. But her earnest answer gave him hope; she loved him. Not Tristan, nor a memory of the past. Him, now.

— "Your wish in my command, beloved"

And he bent forward, his lips catching hers, their softness so distracting, caring and gentle. Then he just held her close, bestowing slow kisses upon the skin of her temple, his large hand caressing her hair as he took in her scent. It was still wrong, still impaired by the disease raging into her body.

Oblivious to his musings, Frances relished in the gentleness of his care as she thought. Beloved. He had never called her that, referring to her as 'my beautiful'. Perhaps because she wasn't even close to fitting the title at the moment … perhaps because he had realised he loved her a little. And his statement couldn't be truer; he abode by her rule like a musketeer protected the Queen. She had wished him to stop killing, and he had. She had asked him to stop manipulating people, to stop harming them, and so far he respected her wishes. She had rocked his life entirely, yet he still tolerated and humoured her.

— "Thank you," she eventually whispered.

And he made no move to acknowledge her words expect to tighten his hold. Once they were both satisfied that the earth was still spinning, Frances asked for a glass of water that Hannibal provided for her. His keen eyes watched her as she drank her fill, then he sat in front of her on the bed and deposited the plastic goblet on the nightstand with very measured gestures. Face serious, Hannibal then gathered both of her hands into his and regarded her with awe.

— "I have the answer now."

— "To which question?"

For a shameful moment, Hannibal recalled how he had hesitated; things were clearer now, and she needed to know.

— "I would cry if you died, my wife. All this time when your life hung in the balance, I feared for you. Your existence and mine have become tangled now, so much that I am unsure where mine ends and yours starts. I do not wish to be parted from you…"

Frances was shocked speechless, but even more so when he added softly.

— "Please don't leave me"

There would be no better admission of love coming from a man as damaged as he was. Startled, Frances felt the dam of emotions crack through her well-maintained walls. The relief was like an earthquake, shaking foundations that she thought stronger than that… But again, she had been fighting for a long time, and a woman could only endure so much before breaking. Gathering her face into her hands, she started sobbing like a child. Hannibal loved her…. and yet, she couldn't find the will to be happy. She was so tired of this world, so tired… And guilty to react so childishly to his heartfelt confession. She couldn't bring herself to look into his eyes, too afraid to see the hurt her tears caused him. Instead, she flung herself in his arms, pulling at the IV with a wince, and latched her fingers to the once pristine shirt of his tuxedo.

— "I'm sorry, I'm sorry Hannibal," she kept saying between sobs. "I love you, mon amour."

His voice was strained when he eventually asked.

— "Why are you so sad, Frances?"

The words came out jumbled, nearly unintelligible for she cried heavily still.

— "Family … friends … purpose, I have lost it all."

And she felt selfish for saying this, because Hannibal had no family left either, no friends, and she had taken his purpose away from him. Yet he still stood.

— "And I am not enough?" came his earnest plea.

His pain tore through her heart, giving her the strength to sober up. Suddenly, Frances straightened and wiped out the tears. Her red rimmed eyes fixed him intensely, forcing upon him the truth of her feelings, her slender fingers landing on his cheek. And for once, Hannibal closed his eyes, leaning into her touch like a wounded man.

— "You are more than I could ever hope for. But you know as well as I do that you can't replace others. You can't fill the whole space of my heart. I miss them, that is all."

And Hannibal nodded, truly moved by the wisdom of her words. As a psychiatrist he had met many patients who searched to heal their wounds through their counterpart; it always undeniably failed. The mind could not be completed by another than oneself; no spouse could ever fix what had been broken or bring what was missing. And Frances understood that, because she had laid conditions but not hoped for him to be different. She didn't naïvely think her love would heal him. But it brought him so much, making him feel once more. It was different from satisfaction or the thrill of the kill, a feeling much warmer, more enveloping. Acceptance, belonging, the sense of need and usefulness. She depended on him; maybe he could rely on her as well.

When the young woman – too young for his old self! – fell asleep once more, he could only contemplate the exhausted lines of her face. The steady flow of antibiotics flooded her body to chase away the nasty streptococcus that had claimed her lungs. Pneumonia. How fitting, for a woman who had just lost a friend to lung cancer. For a moment, Hannibal wondered if there was a connection other than a psychological transfer.

Frances' hand still grasped his tightly, as if she was afraid that he would leave her alone. But he wouldn't. He'd come so close to losing her that he knew he wouldn't leave her side. If she had not walked into his life, he would still be a lonely cannibal with a very dull and bloody life. She'd given him the fright of his life, and he understood now what she had felt when Tobias came for him. Pure dread.

Before his own eyes closed in exhaustion, he texted Will.

'Frances is out of danger. You saved her life, Will. Thank you' – Hannibal.

'Great. I'll pop by tomorrow' — Will.


	15. Chapter 15 - Escape

**_Yeah, Mads Mikkelsen is an amazing actor. So subtle, the slightest change in his eyes and the world crumbles down. It truly is extraordinary what this man can convey in a look. Viggo Mortensen himself said so. Coming from Aragorn, it is quite the compliment !_**

When Will showed up the next morning, a box of chocolate in hand, Frances was still asleep. Hannibal, never one to be caught off guard – much like his wife – heard him turn the handle before he even popped up into the room. The psychiatrist stood from the armchair a nurse had nicely brought him at night so that he didn't break his neck. Will's eyes didn't meet his for more than a second – as was his habit - but his face morphed into sympathy at once.

— "You look like hell," he whispered.

And Hannibal had the gall to smirk; he had yet to leave Frances' side ever since she was brought two days ago. Of course, unshaven and sleeping in uncomfortable chairs, he probably didn't meet up the pristine standard Will was used to. He didn't care much for it, though. Will was becoming family pretty fast; it gave him a little leeway when it came to his appearance. The psychiatrist was about to answer when Will's eyes glazed over, his hand gripping the railing of Frances' bedfoot. Worried that he could have an episode, Hannibal approached silently, his keen eyes taking in Will's tense posture as he roamed the vision he was probably having.

And for sure, Will Graham's mind was filled with heartache and sorrow as he took in the slumped form of Frances in bed, features pale, lifeless. For what he saw wasn't a woman hooked up to an IV in the hospital. No. What he saw was a bloodied body, her collarbone shattered by a bolt she had taken in stead of Lancelot, crimson blood covering her armour from head to toe. Hers and Tristan's who had passed away on the battlefield in her shaking arms. He saw the hours pass by, the sun dip and rise again, and still she wouldn't wake, wouldn't whimper, mourning silently as she refused to regain consciousness. Her shoulder got bandaged, the muscles and bones torn awfully, and when she awoke it was to bury Tristan in the sad little cemetery of the knights, looking like a ghost herself.

And she remained upon his tomb, singing to his soul so that he could reach the heavens, her left arm bandaged and useless, forever crippled. And the evening fell, the light faded, then came the rain yet she still stood upon the mount of dirt, refusing to leave until the knights came to collect her. A Sarmatian wife mourning the passing of her warrior husband.

— "What have you seen?"

Will almost started, the box of chocolate forgotten upon the blankets as he gazed into Hannibal's eyes. The older man was so close, towering over him and he had failed to see his approach. The empath recounted his vision with a trembling voice as he recalled the heartache of those days. His hand still clung to the railing, shaking, as he told his psychiatrist of the gruesome wound Frances has sustained.

— "Where?" Hannibal asked, his voice low.

Will pointed to his upper chest, right below the left collarbone and the psychiatrist nodded.

— "I've seen her rub this place often, as if in pain."

— "How is it possible? Ghosts pain in a new body?"

Hannibal turned to his wife for a moment, hiding his face to school his features. Will still believed Frances to be reincarnated; she shouldn't be able to feel the consequences of a wound from a body long dead and buried. Sensing that he wouldn't get more, Will continued.

— "You have no idea how much she had mourned Tristan … you."

And the emotion in Hannibal's eyes was so raw that the empath felt his tongue thicken. Never before had he seen the psychiatrist so shaken. Perhaps … perhaps he had an inkling of how much Frances had wept upon his grave.

— "Do you still doubt her story?" he asked.

Hannibal shook his head. Despite the few memories he had recovered from Tristan, he didn't doubt it anymore … but Will didn't know the full extend of it. Aliens, cloning, Stargate and Keeper of Time included; he was only aware of reincarnation. There had been much more to doubt about in the first place that the return of two fellow knights.

— "No. I have come to terms with this impossibility."

Frances suddenly stirred and opened her eyes. Despite the hushed conversation, she had sensed their presence. Hannibal sighed; she always had been a light sleeper and resisted to medication. A Xanax held no sway over her stubborn will – her body simply washed it away like Tylenol – and Frances never relinquished control, even in sleep. It took barely a second before she recognised the newcomer.

— "Will," she said, a smile brightening her features. "I'm glad you are here."

The empath gave one last meaningful look to Hannibal before picking up the chocolate box. The present was met with a heartfelt smile that melted both of their hearts. Chocolate always did the trick for her; comfort food at its best. Pleasantries were exchanged, trivial things such as why she had nearly died in the first place. The young woman thanked him profusely for his quick thinking; he had saved her life. A feat that Hannibal confirmed, a fond gaze directed to Will.

— "She was in septic shock when I found her. Half an hour later would have been too late."

The empath only nodded, uncomfortable. But then, Frances's countenance brightened and she suddenly asked.

— "Can you stay for a while?"

— "Got no case today," Will answered, avoiding her eyes.

A smile passed upon her lips, then she turned to Hannibal.

— "That's your cue, darling. Go home, sleep, take a shower and rest."

Had her affection not poured out of her chocolate eyes, Hannibal might have recoiled that she kicked him out so easily to replace him with Will. But in truth, he was in dire need of a break and a hot shower … maybe a homemade brunch as well, to put his thoughts together. And a nap … and a change of clothes. The perspective of a little comfort after those trying days brought him to pick his coat up and peck his wife's lips.

— "Are you sure?" he asked.

For he knew that something loomed under the surface. Frances was afraid of hospitals, he had picked up on her distress signals from the moment she awoke. And even if she wouldn't be alone; Will couldn't stand out to doctors the way he could. The young woman reached for his cheek gently, warm hazel conveying her gratitude for his supporting presence. But still the fear lingered in her eyes, mercilessly pushed down as she kissed him.

— "Yes. I won't be alone. Get some rest, I will need you, mon amour."

And so Hannibal left Frances in the care of Will Graham, intend on cooking something nice to bring her back for dinner once he had pulled himself together from the ordeal. No killing had ever drained him like this, no investigation nor near miss situation. The stirrings of his heart unsettled him, but he welcomed them. Pain and longing meant he was still alive.

Will and Hannibal rotated beside Frances' bed while she recovered, Alana even taking some time out of her tight schedule to pay a visit. They didn't have much to share, those two women, except about the people they knew in common. Will Graham, a love interest of Alana's – even if she was still in denial – and Hannibal, her former mentor. She was a sweet and naïve woman, this lovely psychiatrist, and Frances hoped that Will and her could find a way to make it work. Yet, she couldn't share too much for fear of selling her husband to be to his very devoted disciple. Despite her deceitful appearance – Alana was lovely and her eyes very doe like – the woman was far from stupid. Any slip and she would put two and two together.

By the end of the third day, Frances's patience had run out and she insisted on being taken home. Hannibal would have none of it, arguing that she wasn't out of the woods yet. Still, they had taken her IV off to give her antibiotics pills. But the doctor in him was wary … what if the bacteria were resistant and her fever suddenly worsened? In hospital, they would pick it up immediately while he was away working. At home … who knew what could happen in his absence? And despite Frances arguing her case very soundly – she had a solid background in biology and physiology after all – Hannibal refused to relent. She sent him home that night with a huff, her eyes promising such retribution that the psychiatrist actually shuddered. What could her kitten possibly plan to make him regret his unrelenting position?

Settling in his lonely king-size bed, Hannibal could only mourn the loss of her warm body beside his. Her absence felt wrong; he actually enjoyed being her pillow. The psychiatrist hoped his wife wouldn't deny him the company out of revenge. Somehow, he doubted it; she was addicted to him. Two more days, and he would be able to take her home … still, he wondered how she would receive him tomorrow. No doubt she would still be pissed, especially since he had a long list of patients and wouldn't be able to visit before late afternoon. The psychiatrist prepared himself for the cold shoulder; Frances really could be difficult whenever she set her mind to it, responding yes and no with a fake smile like a noble lady of old. Bah. He would make it up to her by bringing a nice dinner.

His fears were unfounded … mainly, for nothing came to disturb his psychiatrist's schedule nor his routine. No pranks, nor tantrums, or angry words. Except for the text message, around 10 am, that said:

'I'll be in Wolf Trap today, don't worry about me. Will can drive me back tomorrow. Yours faithfully' — Frances

There was no mistaking the sting hidden behind the formality. Hannibal's head suddenly fell upon the desk in a show of rare fatigue. What was he going to do with his headstrong wife?

Frances wasn't one for revenge; still, she stood out for what she believed, and tended to her needs. Especially when the man of her life refused to do so… This is how, at 9 am sharp, Will Graham found her fully clothed and ready to go. She didn't lie to him in any way; no claim of discharge papers being signed. No, she just told him to take her to Wolf Trap. Cornered, Will stuttered.

— "Frances, I can stay at night if you don't want to be alone. I'll be here to support you if you need it. And where is Hannibal?"

The young woman huffed, her gaze so steely that he couldn't handle it and looked at the ground.

— "I don't want support, I want out. Hannibal refused, him being a doctor and all."

— "Why?" he asked.

And she knew he wasn't asking why her husband refused to discharge her. Will was too attuned to her emotions, to the panic building inside her the more she stayed here, to ask such a trivial thing. No. Will wanted to understand why she so badly wanted to run away from this place, even if it meant facing the wrath of a certain – very intimidating – psychiatrist. The young woman tugged at his sleeve, avoiding touching his skin for he disliked physical contact, but willing him to catch the plea in her eyes.

— "I can't heal in a hospital, Will. Things happened to me there, things that shouldn't have. I am not sure what, I was small, I just don't remember much. I am on edge, expecting an attack. I don't sleep here… I feel disrespected"

Will's blue eyes widened at the implications of her words. This was a losing battle and he didn't fancy hospitals much either.

— "Take me out please. I got my prescriptions, just take me out."

— "Frances, don't…", he said sternly.

It was his last failed attempt at reasoning her.

— "I'm leaving on my own, Will."

Will sighed, overwhelmed. She wasn't threatening nor blackmailing. She could have told him that she would be left in the streets with nowhere to go if he didn't comply, stirring guilt in his heart. But it wasn't Frances' way. Her sheer determination, though, told him she would be gone in less than a minute. Better with him than alone; it was freezing outside. And if Hannibal would have had the strength – damn that old man! – to restrain her, Will certainly wasn't about to get into a catfight with Frances. Even impaired, she still was a very dangerous woman. A wounded and desperate woman that wanted nothing more in the world than to escape this place.

— "Hannibal will kill me," he grumbled.

At this, Frances only laughed.

— "He didn't do it fifteen hundred years ago, he won't do it now."

— "Whatever," Will huffed.

He expected to grab a suitcase but realised that Frances had nothing more than her purse in the room. Hannibal provided her with fresh sets of clothes every day, and had not brought her heavy cloak yet. Probably to avoid her from sneaking out…

— "I'll take the blame. Come on, let's go. I want a pizza"

_Wolf Trap, Virginia_

Frances shut the passenger door with a bang, glad to replace the dog's smell of Will's oldish car for the crisp air of the outdoors. The sun shone brightly; its course high enough to send its rays over the frozen layer of snow. The crystals twinkled in the slightly orange light; the result of a lower angle of incidence from earth's star. The air itself seemed frozen in place, and her mouth produced a puff of fog as she breathed in deeply. It was dry, all water expelled by the freezing temperatures; just like she liked it. It smelt like a morning day at a ski resort, when, after a good night's sleep, she used to hit the slopes even before the first lift started functioning. Always the first ones, always the last ones on the slopes; she had roamed many resorts with her father and brother, trying to keep up with their crazy pace. Those were but memories, now, forever buried in the recesses of her mind.

Beside her, Will was silent. He had been subdued ever since they ran into that redhead in the hospital. Freddie Lounds, the horrible journalist that kept spreading lies about how Will Graham was the greatest killer of all times. Ah. What a stupid woman! Her red mane had barely shifted her way as they exited the hospital before she scurried to them in haste. Frances had ignored her, getting in the car without a second glance. But Will had exchanged a few heated words with the journalist, asking her, far too gently, to back away. His brow still held the furrow that her allegations had called to his face.

They walked, side by side, in the crisp air, Frances taking in the quiet surroundings as she spread her arms. How she wanted to hang around for a bit and leave fresh tracks in the pristine snow. A childish behaviour; it would be like crumpling one of Hannibal perfectly ironed shirts. But it felt incredible to be free, the frozen breeze reddening her cheeks, its icy clutches reminding her of the immensity of the outdoors. Frances loved Wolf Trap, she enjoyed visiting Will in this wild place. For as much as she loved her husband, she hated living in a city. What a far cry from Tristan's scouting days, when he would sleep outside just for the sake of not being trapped in the fort. Yet, she had to accept it. Hannibal was unsettled with things out of his control.

What she loved in nature was the reminder that they were powerless, little souls drifting across the ocean of destiny. When she communiated with nature, there was no pain, no sorrow, no past and no future, only the blank bliss of the earth and its creatures living their own life. Something she shared with Will for he had no issues relinquishing sovereignty. And today, as she spread her arms and spun around in the snow, calling a smile on Will's face, she could feel the immense power of the planet. It only emphasised the hole in her chest, the energy she had given to Bella and failed to refill. All the missing people. A sudden cough caught bubble in her chest and Will immediately frowned.

— "Come inside, you don't have a cloak and you're sick."

The voice of reason, but how she wished to say no! Still, the coughing intensified, and she had no other option than to relent. Stupid pneumonia! Reluctantly, she followed Will inside the cabin, her eyes taking in the glorious landscape as she stepped under the porch of his house. Barking greeted them even before the door was open, and Frances welcomed Will's dogs with a heartfelt smile. Even though she would have loved to remain outside, she still enjoyed the furry heads' company. For sure, she wasn't about to have her own animal in Hannibal's impeccable house. Hairs on the sofa and torn furniture would surely send her feline straight to hell … or to the oven, yuck!

Passing the front foor, Frances scrunched her nose slightly ; the smell of dogs and cheap wood didn't agree much with her. It wasn't so far away from Galahad's room in the fifth century. Still, she had come to associate it with her friend and felt at ease now. She could already see clear as day the slight crinkling of Hannibal's straight nose when he would kiss her…

Frances settled on the sofa, Winston coming to rest his head upon her thigh as she petted him.

— "So, how about this pizza?" came Will's voice from behind the kitchen counter.

— "Oh yes!"

Will chuckled at her enthusiasm, his clear blue eyes catching her for half a second before he sent the flyer straight to her lap.

— "You've always been good at throwing things, although I remember more about daggers and arrows than pizza flyers."

The empath chuckled slightly before picking up the phone from its base.

— "So what will it be, my fair lady?"

Frances hummed slightly, taking in the long list that made her mind dizzy … or perhaps it was her low blood pressure that made the words swim before her eyes. Still, she knew what she wanted.

— "Pescadore, to honour the host"

Will sent her a cryptic look to which she responded with a grin.

— "Fisherman, Will. In Italian"

— "Right… No meat, uh?"

The empath was referring to her avoiding meat at Hannibal's, which slowly spread as the belief that she was a vegetarian. She had yet to correct that notion, but didn't quite know how to dance around it. So she settled for fish in public, most of the time, because Will knew how to cook it, and because she enjoyed it.

— "I never saw the interest of putting meat on a pizza anyway."

— "Why not?"

Frances snorted, her face coming close to a 'duh' she would never utter. Even though she was more relaxed in Will's presence, the young woman couldn't keep her nature away. And she wasn't one to swear, or express herself with rude onomatopoeia.

— "Because you either love meat, and you don't burn it to a crisp with no proper sauce on a bed of tomatoe, or you don't like it, and you don't eat it."

— "You're Hannibal's wife through and through," came his tired sigh.

— "Definitely."

Although the deed wasn't done as per the administration, they both considered themselves married. The young woman's eyes brightened at the perspective of a true marriage, tugging her legs below her body to keep body heat. Will's cabin was nowhere near overheated, and she was tired. It would take time for her to recover. The empath observed her with furrowed brows, and picked up a plaid to wrap over her legs with a smile.

— "Thank you"

Will only smiled, picking up the phone once more. His eyes were more greenish up close, and Frances left her mind wander as he rang the pizza shop for a delivery. At last, the price and time were settled, and the empath hung up, his gaze a little lost in the distance.

— "You know, you and Hannibal compliment each other, especially in the kitchen. And the language department. Do you speak Lithuanian yet?"

He was teasing her now, she could spot the glint in his eyes when they briefly met hers. Playing with the soft plaid filed with animal's hair, she stuck her tongue at him.

— "Er, no. I'll learn"

— "Well, give it a rest, your brain can only handle so much at a time."

— "It is unfair. Hannibal speaks French like he speaks English, but I don't know more than a few words in his mother tongue"

Will left his head slouch backwards, eyes roaming the wooden ceiling of his cabin. Those two brainiacs were weird … especially since they now spoke French more often than not between themselves. It probably reminded Hannibal of his years at his uncle's estate and his first years studying medicine.

— "How about Italian?" he asked.

The young woman gave him an incredulous look, forgetting that, aside from her, people knew next to nothing about Dr Lecter's passion for Firenze … or any of his passions whatsoever.

— "Of course he speaks Italian."

— "Spanish?"

The young woman huffed beside him. She was close, but not close enough so they could touch. Still, for him, it was a great step to settle in range of another, at the mercy of an unwanted physical contact.

— "Phew, when you know French and Italian AND Latin as well as he does, it's just too easy."

— "So you're vexed because he knows more languages than you do."

At this, Frances only nodded, biting her tongue to refrain from mentioning that Hannibal had no clue about the elvish tongue. Quenya or Sindarin. In this domain, she was sure to have the upper hand!

_A few hours later_

The pizza had come and gone, and Frances badly hoped that her system would handle it since she'd had nothing but light hospital food for days. Her weight had gone below the hundred pounds after her ordeal; nothing carastrophic, but it wasn't enough for her 5'4 in. Right after the meal, she had slumbered gently on the sofa, covered by Will's plaid, Winston settling upon her legs. The empath had left the room, resting upstairs to avoid waking her until he heard the front door open. Damn that woman! She was going out in the snow!

Darting downstairs, he grabbed his heavy coat and hurried outside. The sun was low now, painting the landscape in orange hues that rendered the silent place even more ethereal. Frances stood still, feet buried in the snow, his plaid wrapped around her. Her long hair, fastened into a braid, hung upon the creamy fabric like a tail of fire blazed by the sunlight. For a moment, all that he could see was a woman in armour riding a tall grey horse in a snowy mountain pass, snowflakes twirling around her reddened cheeks. Where, when? Despite everything they had discussed the past weeks, he still felt there was much he didn't know.

Will joined her slowly, his steps crunching packed snow below his boots until he stood by her side. Frances' mask didn't slip to acknowledge him, her hazel eyes lost in the contemplation of the landscape. At least, this is what she tried to project … but Will was an empath. The weight on her chest crushed him just as much as it crushed her. Inside, she was crumbling down.

— "Frances?" he eventually asked gently.

— "Yes"

Her voice was deadened, the simple word curt. Had she ordered, 'speak!', Will would have been less intimidated.

— "What's up?"

She didn't turn to him, her jaw contracting for a moment. Then she ungritt her teeth, and the words came flowing reluctantly.

— "I think this disease was a way for me to mourn. To realise I am still alive, and let go of the rest."

— "Is your family dead?"

The young woman froze in shock, her chocolate eyes – nearly golden in the low sunlight –searching his. Will cringed, interrupting the staring contest Frances seemed very fond of; a trait she shared with Hannibal. Will knew the effect his perceptions could have on people, especially when he asked questions that had nothing to do with the conversation at hand. To them, there would be no link between what had been said, and his retort … especially when it delved into secrets they avoided like the plague. To him, it felt perfectly clear. Still, he thought Frances had gotten used to it; she never seemed quite fazed by his ability to jump from pillar to post. She knew his perceptions led him in an illogical way. But this time she wasn't expecting it.

Tears leaked down her face, and Will would have kicked himself for his lack of tact. Still, she didn't answer him. Perhaps … now that he had put his foot in his mouth … there wasn't much to save, right? So he kept his gaze firmly on the ground, ignoring the purring sound of a motor in the distance, as he blurted out the whole truth.

— "Frances, I know you've been lying to me…"

— "I never did," she retorted sternly.

— "Fine. You just avoid questions"

The young woman sent him a wary look to which he only lifted his hands in surrender. As an empath, he heard her silences as much as the truths. To any question he had asked about their common past, half of it remained unanswered. At the beginning, he thought she didn't trust him, or sought to manipulate him. That suspicion was long forgotten; Frances simply had too many wounds and secrets for such a young woman. But she was genuine as they come, and so was her affection. Hence he thought useful to clarify his statement.

— "I don't judge you. I won't force you to talk to me. You're my friend now, I'll be here when you feel like sharing."

Frances nodded with relief and surprisingly, Will lifted his arm to hug her shoulders, pulling her close as his body registered the contact. A contact he had initiated, wow! And she let her head fall upon his shoulder, her body less tense now he had said his piece. The tears, though, still flowed out of her eyes. The purring of the motor was closer now; a car was approaching in the snow. Will turned slightly to spot the familiar Bentley of Dr Lecter coming up his driveway. But then, Frances called his attention back to her, aware that this discussion was reaching its end.

— "I will tell you soon Will. But not now. I don't have the heart."

The empath nodded, his chest constricting in tune with hers. Moved by the intensity of her pain, he twisted to hug the young woman fiercely, and she hugged him back. For a moment, all air left his lungs as she tightened her hold. Then she let go with a quiet thank you, her shining eyes taking in the form of Hannibal Lecter emerging from his Bentley. She didn't seem surprised to see him, but didn't take a step forward either.

The smouldering ambers of Hannibal's eyes caused the young woman to straighten, and if Will missed the glint of jealousy in the psychiatrist's eyes – it was too preposterous to reach his brain – he couldn't ignore how they both tensed. Like an alpha wolf and its mate about to fight for dominance. Hannibal stopped a few feet away, his suit impeccable below the heavy winter coat, leather gloves covering his long fingers.

— "Hello, wife"

His very calm greeting elicited an equally icy retort from the young woman.

— "Hello, husband. If you are here to drag me back to the hospital, I'd rather sleep with the dogs tonight."

A feral glint passed in his eyes, something so reminiscent of Tristan in a bad day that Will instinctively cowered. His instincts urged him to run and hide rather than being caught in the crossfire between those two! But then, Hannibal's features softened, one of his hands extending forward in a gesture of peace.

— "I am here to bring you home, if it is agreeable to you."

Will almost rolled his eyes at the formality. Where those two born with sticks stuck up their asses? Did they speak to each other this way in bed as well? Still, Frances relaxed beside him, the formal address giving her much more information than he perceived. This cloaking of words, the ancestral etiquette, always held many layers. Almost like a code that the young woman used to reach her noble Lithuanian husband, a code that, he, the empath, had no clue about. Perhaps they were too used to reading each other, or perhaps they had always been wired together. His reminiscence of Tristan and the fiery lady seemed to confirm so, remembering how they communicated in the tavern without exchanging words.

At least, they had the decency to speak English in presence of others. Politeness dictated it and thus, they abode but its rules. Will wondered which harsh words – in French – would fly between the two of them once out of earshot. There was no stronger definition of _private_ than the Lecter couple.

Frances pecked him on the cheek, her eyes still set upon Hannibal, then slid the plaid out of her shoulders to leave it in Will's arms.

— "Thank you for you support, Will. And the pizza"

— "You're welcome", he stuttered.

Then she literally prowled to her husband, eyes set upon his face, until her cold hand reached his gloved one. The stuffy doctor surprised Will then, engulfing his wife in a hug like a commoner. The gesture, so human, called a smile to Will's lips. This is what Frances brought to Hannibal's life; humanity.

— "You smell like dogs," Hannibal growled in Frances ear, careful not to be overheard.

And she laughed.

Half an hour later, Frances slept in the car while he drove them back to Baltimore, Hannibal's heavy coat draped over her. The doctor had dismissed the scolding for another day, feeling that she would give him hell for patronising her. The short conversation he had had with Will as she retrieved her handbag still played heavily on his mind. 'For her sake, you must support her, she won't be controlled.' There had been steel in Will's gaze, a determination that came forth every so scarcely.

Hannibal sighed. Since when the empath gave him orders? Since when was he willing to listen to them? And more important of all, since when Will's advice on women seemed sound?


	16. Chapter 16 - A forgotten present

**_As usual, I tried to keep it short. I failed. I hope you enjoy._**

**_Anyway, erm. Chapter 17 here, and I plan around 10 more then it will be the end so … 100k words? Damn, as much as the original work 'All Hail to the King'. When I thought I wanted this spin off to only be a drabble … _****_ What can I say? Hannibal is an incredible character portrayed by an amazing actor. I was bound to be inspired._**

**_As usual, italics is French. Don't think me lazy, I could very write it all in french but I don't think you would appreciate much. If you want, drop me a word, I'll comply happily :)_**

It had been four days since Frances had woken up in hospital, Hannibal holding her hand as he slumbered in the seat beside her. She was still tired. Too tired, but she missed him so much. She missed intimacy, his body against hers. Ever since they had met – again – not a day has passed without him making love to her. Sometimes twice when they could linger in bed. Her words to Bella, many months ago, were truthful. Hannibal was a very passionate man, and she wondered if their frequent intimacy helped him keep in check the bloodlust. It wasn't enough, though, as he went swimming once a week – a hobby to which she partook with pleasure. There was nothing like soaking in warm water in a desert swimming pool.

Except for the feel of his skin against hers. And today … today she couldn't contain it anymore. And when her eyes opened, her body sprawled on her belly, to find his golden-brown eyes gazing at her, they probably conveyed a message that couldn't be ignored. Something akin to flames danced behind his carefully composed gaze, the beast awaiting to be unleashed one way or another. It was always there, hidden behind the air of nonchalance and indifference. So obvious, so plain that she wondered how the others failed to notice it. Today, passion won over anger, love over destruction as Hannibal gently brushed loose strands around her face and kissed her lips.

— "Lay still," he ordered. "I will take care of you."

And so he did. Climbing upon her bare back, replacing the cover over them to keep her warm, he lowered the entire length of his muscled body over her lovely curves. Skin upon skin, from head to toe, that set fire to his blood. His lips travelled her back reverently, from her nape where he brushed her hair away, to her small waist. His hands worked their miracle, massaging the tense muscles that rippled below her silky skin, washing the pain away, wishing it to flee with the winter winds. And while he made gentle love to her, relishing in every whimper, every moan that passed her lips, he couldn't help but marvel at the sensuality of his wife. Her lower back undulated against his as she failed at lying still, and every one of her slow moves sent pleasure along his spine. Lying once more all over her, bodies safely intertwined Hannibal cradled her head. His long fingers played with her tousled hair, his lips sealing upon her temple as he conveyed the extend of his affection. She reached for his neck at an impossible angle, arched backwards as her hips unconsciously met him. Elegant fingers curled around his nape, pulling him closer again until their bodies touched from head to toe.

There was something strangely soothing in her quiet nature, her cries so scarcely gracing his ears even in their lovemaking. Once in a while he managed to unleash her, on those days they both needed the exertion and he pounded into her like a mad wolf. His pride relished in moments when she lost all sense and moaned his name, her cries rising in intensity until all control was relinquished into his hands. Frances unleashed by his ministrations, the most beautiful sight in the world. Even more than when, after months and months of scheming, he managed to push a patient to kill. Even more than seeing Will's walls unwind under his guidance. The purest, and simplest beauty, the love in her eyes as, every time, she pulled him close and thanked him for making love to her.

— "Thank you," she whispered when he lowered himself upon her, their bodies spent.

— "You are most welcome. It is I, who thank you," he always answered, marvelling that she would thank him after granting her his most fervent wish.

And for a while, everything was quiet, the first rays of late autumn filtering over the heavy brocade curtains of his bedroom. And he stayed over her, forearms bearing the brunt of his weight, her back against his chest, their frantic hearts beating in unison. His breath upon the side of her face, his lips tracing the curve of her cheekbone until he lowered his head upon hers, cheeks touching in the most intimate of embraces. There, then, Hannibal was happy. And when he settled beside her, she was already asleep.

For the first time in ages, the psychiatrist allowed himself to doze off again, even if the light called for him to rise and shine. It was, after all, a special day today. The fiftieth year of his venue to the world … so much had happened in those years … so much. But what he couldn't have planned, though, was the sweet solace that washed over him as his arm lazily rested upon her waist. Scooting closer, Hannibal drifted back to sleep, hair tousled, so close to her that his breath fanned upon her face. Her warm presence welcomed him into Morpheus's embrace once more, the slight humming of her skin him strangely soothing. Yes, for once, Hannibal was at peace.

It was but several hours later that Hannibal heard the shower running. Breakfast was nearly ready, he turned the sausages around – pork, mind you. It was their little secret; Frances ate meat, only if she got to buy it. An involuntary smile lifted the corner of Hannibal's lips; once more, the young woman would appear in the kitchen just when the dish is ready. It might be luck, or fate, but she always found the way to be here at the right place, at the right moment in his life. Busying himself to pass the tea – nor too cold, nor too hot to keep the bitterness at an acceptable level – Hannibal realised that another voice was overlapping the opera piece he had been listening until now. And for sure, once the sizzling of sausages died, the doubling of the soprano line became more obvious. The psychiatrist shed his apron and carefully climbed the stairs; La Bacarolle echoing in the house from now two different sources. The words seemed to tumble easily from Frances' lips. The Offenbach opera was French after all; it shouldn't surprise him so much.

Hannibal stopped in the corridor, fearful to interrupt his wife for she had never graced him with her voice. And what a voice! The line of the soprano seemed to tumble from her lips so easily, the tone quality of her vocal chords perfectly adapted to the melody. And even if some notes were slightly off, even if she sometimes stumbled in the words, or took some liberties, it still echoed harmoniously in the bathroom. Frances had finished showering now, her singing sometimes interrupted as she probably got dressed, or put some cream, or performed one of the tiny acts a woman would do when preparing herself for the day. He did not know much about it; Frances had very few rituals. A little cream, a brush in her hair, and make-up when she felt too tired to forgo concealing the circles under her eyes. She would sometimes roll her hair in a bun and clip it with the tiniest of hair pins which defied even Quantum physics laws. No one could possibly tame such amount of hair with the smallest of hair clips. Anyway. She had fewer material and cosmetics than himself. Hannibal pursed his lips; the privilege of age perhaps.

Somewhere in the back of his mind danced the reminiscence of an Ave Maria interpreted so beautifully that it had laid his heart bare. It had been her, the Keeper of Time on a fateful winter day. A piece much more difficult than La Bacarolle as her emotion poured forth. Hannibal frowned, wondering why his memories were so scarce compared to what Will now recalled from Galahad. Perhaps because Will, being was an empath, accessed the buried parts of his soul more easily. Perhaps because Hannibal's mind was damaged beyond words, his emotions so suppressed than nothing escaped the heavy walls expect what he allowed. Still, it annoyed him that another man would remember more of his wife than he did.

Despite her reassurance, he could not get rid of the image he'd stumbled upon the previous day. Frances nestled in Will's arms, both contemplating the wild landscape that soothed their overactive brains, both empathic beings to the core, humbled by nature yet not bothered by their own insignificance. Surely Will would be better suited than him by her side? An old, sophisticated, cannibalistic serial killer? A man who lived in town to keep everything under control? A man who could rip a beating heart to preserve its taste? The door suddenly opened to reveal his future wife. The woman reining in his bruised and battered heart. She adorned a pair of cachemire pants he had gifted her recently, the soft material emphasising her lovely legs while showing nothing. A stay-at-home outfit, but not negligee.

Her eyes widened at finding him in the corridor and Hannibal immediately caught the new light in her eye. Determination, love and strength. Frances was back, dragged from her self-imposed depression. Perhaps the reason for her singing in the first place, celebrating life and love. Hannibal addressed her a crooked smile, his hands itching to caress her upper thighs to assesses the softness of the fabric.

— "Hello beautiful," he gently coaxed, eyes appraising.

— "Hello handsome," she purred.

Her hand landed on his chest, the red sweater that she loved on display, before it gently slid to his collarbone. Skin upon skin caused his body to hum, and Hannibal grabbed her waist to push him flush against him.

— "_Feeling better_?" he teased.

Hannibal didn't wait for her answer as his lips claimed her in a passionate kiss. Surprised, Frances wound her hands around his shoulder to keep her balance, arching backwards to push her chest flush against him. Passion and desire suddenly fuelled their souls, leaving them both breathless.

— "_Much better now_," she answered, her fingers caressing his cheekbone reverently.

And Hannibal almost forgot how, just a moment before, he had feared she might be better suited for Will Graham. No. Frances was too classy, too cultured, too noble for any other than him. Who could appreciate, more than himself, the beauty of her voice as she sang opera? Surely not Will Graham. She was his. 'Mine!', screamed his insides. Tightening his hold on her waist, the psychiatrist had to hold the growl that threatened to break through. The beast, always there, always hidden, was the proof that he wasn't a psychopath. Hannibal had feelings, they just never broke through the wall unless he accepted it. And they were different from the common human.

— "_Are you all right, darling_?"

Frances was frowning, her eyes searching his, and Hannibal loosened his hold slightly.

— "_Yes. I am glad to see the color returned to your cheeks_"

— "Hum. OK"

She didn't believe him, but refrained from pushing. When Hannibal didn't want to talk, nothing short of torture could get him out of his shell. And even then… She wasn't quite sure it would work. The man had such a high tolerance for pain… His smooth voice broke her out of her reverie as he gently guided her downstairs.

— "_You said you could sing, I should not have been surprised to hear you perform such a piece but I still was_."

Frances flushed, trying to hide her face in her hands but he would have none of it, simply keeping her arm trapped around his until he settled her at the dining table. Then he knelt beside her chair, his fingers caressing the back of her hand.

— "_Why don't you sing more in the house? It is lovely_."

The young woman bit her lip. She sang … a lot. This was the reason why her voice was still clear and her technique proper. Never in his presence though; it was quite impossible to surprise her, and she always knew when the front door opened. Music or not, vacuum cleaner or sewing machine. With his ways, she simply could not afford to be surprised. Anything could happen, from a serial killer entering the house to the FBI storming in. The slightest tremble of the house, the air whooshing in or out always told her whenever Hannibal returned home. Then, each and every time, she would shut up and still, listening intently as he shed his coat in the entrance. This, and she knew Hannibal's penchant for perfection. Despite her talent, Frances had no qualms accepting her shortcomings when it came to singing.

— "_Well, I always stop singing when you… you come home_"

Hannibal's eyebrows shot up, and Frances couldn't help but marvel at the myriad of emotions that seemed to permeate him now. As if he had managed to cast his heavy walls aside for her sake.

— "_Why would you do such a thing_?"

— "_I_ _am afraid you will judge me lacking_," she whispered, ashamed to admit her fears.

Hannibal stood then, the slightest of disappointment passing through his amber eyes. His hand caressed her collarbone for a moment before her bent over and kissed her cheek.

— "_I certainly will not. Your voice is beautiful, and classical becomes you_."

The psychiatrist was about to leave the room when her voice called to him.

— "_Do you sing, darling_?"

— "_God no! I don't_" he answered, a smirk adorning his sensual lips. "_But I am the lucky recipient of your voice, and will worship it._"

— "_Flatterer_," she chuckled.

— "Never," he retorted playfully.

Then he scurried away, bringing tea, sausages and many other dishes he had prepared while she slept. La Baccarolle had now surrendered to a less familiar air and Frances watched, fascinated, the ballet of Hannibal Lecter as he presented the brilliant breakfast that was to grace her palate. Always so mouthwatering … it was truly incredible how this man was capable of producing beauty. Even his crimes, as horrifying as they appeared, contained beauty in the most gruesome form.

They shared the meal like many others before, pleasant conversation and praise flowing from Frances' mouth. Gone was the cloud of sadness wrapping her like a shroud; it had been replaced by fierce determination. Her good disposition had returned by the grace of … he didn't know. A realisation, perhaps, that they were both still alive, still breathing and still together. Hannibal refused to delve deeper; her mind, after all, wasn't his to prod. And even if he couldn't help it; instincts and knowledge couldn't be suppressed, the psychiatrist tried very hard not to dismantle her… Most of the time… only when he couldn't use it to his advantage. Habits die hard.

Her good mood, though, allowed them to pass a pleasant moment that he cherished. Partaking in a good meal, with classical music in the background and her lovely features smiling at him, her regard plainly written in her eyes… This was the best of mornings. Was it a coincidence that he got his wife back on the first day of his fiftieth year? Hannibal didn't know. With Frances, he had gotten used to being surprised. She didn't say much, but could store information for days, months and he suspected, years, only to use it at the most convenient of times.

Today was no exception, for even if he was quite sure she had forgotten his birthday altogether – with her nearly dying of pneumonia he couldn't care less – the young woman surprised him once more when she dragged him upstairs after the dishes were cleaned. The bed was neatly made, covers pulled up and smoothed so that the little white packet laying at the centre stood out. Hannibal froze for a moment; he couldn't remember the last time someone had bought a present for him. Wine at dinner parties didn't count. The psychiatrist wasn't one to advertise his private life to anyone. Anyone but her. Still, he didn't even remember telling her the date. How had she known?

— "_Happy birthday, darling_"

Mouth slightly agape, Hannibal couldn't contain his surprise. Or wouldn't contain it, for he very well could have but found that Frances was happier when he let his emotions run free.

— "_How did you know_?"

The young woman gave him a fond smile, brushing his fingers with hers.

— "_I might have peeked at your ID once_."

Hannibal's eyes twinkled in mischief, his features schooled once more while his inner self roared in delight; there was potential for slyness in his wife after all. But then, his attention returned to the present. It was but a small thing, a very flat packet, and his curiosity peaked. What had the woman got him, he that possessed everything he ever needed? Beside her, Frances fidgeted slightly. Nervous. Of course, she would be nervous, just as much as when she sang. His opinion was law in the house, and his good graces rarely bestowed such was the level of his requirement. Hannibal was demanding whether it applied to his work or those of others. He just couldn't help it, nothing short of perfection would do. Just like his father before him.

The psychiatrist wondered, for a scant moment, how he had grown to feel loved in the first place with such a father figure. He, for one, knew that he would wreak havoc in any child's mind. He simply wasn't suitable for the part. Ever. Fortunately, Frances knew it as well. Children were off limits. It was a pity, really, she would be magnificent with a rounded belly, his child implanted in her womb. Worth sketching. But it was not to be. A gentle squeeze upon his fingers set him in motion, and Hannibal sat on the bed, picking up the present in both hands, prodding it. It was small and supple. A scarf, perhaps? Beside him, Frances settled in a siren like pause, her big doe eyes fixed upon him with the slightest of smiles. How long before she actually screamed at him to tear the paper up?

But the young woman waited patiently as he traced the patterns upon the present, lines of folded paper intertwining in an attempt to render it less stern. She had obviously put a lot of effort into this. At last, Hannibal unwrapped it, fishing out a piece of grey cloth – raw silk – that he unfolded gently to discover the back of a waistcoat. The piece was elegant, the stitching different than his regular tailor, meaning it didn't come from him. Had she, by any chance, made it in the sewing workshop he had set for her? Would it fit properly, or would he have to wear it to please her looking daft? Hannibal kept the lines of his face carefully neutral. Clothes; this was a loaded present.

All interrogations fled his mind when he turned the piece around. Struck speechless, Hannibal could only run his finger over the embroidered landscape of Florence, a thousand of silky white threads creating the most stunning of drawings … one of his doing. The embroidery was obviously done by hand; the stitches were too uneven for a machine. Which meant…

— "_Do you like it_?"

Hannibal was too stunned to answer this statement, his eyebrows completely lost into his hairline.

— "_Did you do it yourself_?" he eventually asked.

Frances nodded.

— "_The embroidery, and the waistcoat. All by my hand, with a little help from your tailor regarding the assembly_"

Hannibal's eyes returned to the piece of art he was currently holding, the embodiment of one of his sketches sewn, thread by thread, each one of his lines represented by a stitch. How had she come to this? To recreating a drawing into a garment?

— "_It is extraordinary_," he said at last. "_The idea and the realisation. I am speechless_."

— "_Hardly. Speechless only applies to very specific circumstances_."

And the mischievous smile on her face said it all, the twinkle shining in her lovely chocolate eyes a promise for the future. An ingenious plot to deviate the conversation to a safer subject than the sheer amount of time and love she had put in this present. Frances never knew how to take a compliment. Still, she urged him:

— "_Try it on darling, I want to see if I got it right_."

So this was what she was unsure about. Great minds think alike… Hannibal shed his red knitted sweater on the chair, passing a shirt upon his toned upper body. He took his time buttoning it, sensing her impatience as she held the waistcoat for him. One single glance at the inside told him it was doubled with a good fabric – not the horrid polyester cigarette paper ready-to-wear shops used to lower the cost – the montage mastered as well. How had Frances become so proficient at making formal attires? One or two more years and she would make his suits…

The waistcoat now rested upon his shoulders; he buttoned it down – save the last one, of course – marvelling at the fabric as it kept its countenance below his nimble fingers. There. It was perfect. Hannibal opened his arms for Frances to see him, all dressed up, eyes twinkling. The garment fit suspiciously well – like one of his favourites red plaid ones – and she confirmed it. The sneaky woman had stolen it to reproduce the pattern, ensuring that it would fit snugly.

She had pulled all of her pieces with great care and thought, and he was truly bewildered by the result. Sizing, assembly, fabrics, embroidery … a project well though and carefully planned from head to toe. Checkmate. A brilliant and unconditional checkmate. He that enjoyed wearing tailor-made garments had just been gifted the most incredible of pieces. For a moment, Hannibal just stood there, taking in the drawing that rested upon his breast, light upon dark grey silk.

— "_Do you like what you see_?" he asked her as she circled him.

Frances pulled gently at the buckle in the small of his back to adjust the waistcoat, and let her hands wander around his body with a sly smile. Her fingers graced his shoulders with a caress, trailing down his back to slide below the waistcoat. Nothing but thin cotton now separated them, and she wound her other hand on his belly as she dove below his left arm to face him. Regardless of the embroidery, Hannibal always cut out an impressive figure in a suit. With his collar still open, it was an invitation to mischief. Yet, seeing him wear his own design, that impressive sketch of Florence. Well … it was a sight for sore eyes.

— "_As a matter of fact, I do_."

Hannibal gathered his wife against him, his intense gaze plunging into hers to convey the truth behind his meaning.

— "_Thank you, beloved. This is a work of art, and it means a lot to me. It is the most incredible present I have ever been offered_"

Frances beamed at him, joy and pride radiating from her lovely features. She was so beautiful! Hannibal sunk lower, bringing her to her toes to meet him halfway and for a while, no more was said about the waistcoat as tongues were otherwise engaged. Then the waistcoat joined his red sweater upon the back of the chair, shirt and pants in tow as Frances dragged him to bed. A quarter of an hour later, she rested her chin upon his heaving chest, her features set in an impish expression as her hair tumbled in disarrayed waves around her face.

— "_Now, darling, I think you are speechless_."

And true to her word, Hannibal only managed to chuckle as he was panting too heavily to formulate a full sentence.

_**Aren't they cute together ? Hannibal still has his edge, but he's accepting to be tamed... sometimes. And there's nothing like good sex to unwind a tense man :p**_


	17. Chapter 17 - The sword and the sheath

**So, I might be flirting with the T rating here but hey, nothing is explicitly described so…**

**To Koba, thank you again for a wonderful review. I'm keeping you on edge with that one, and since it was my aim, I'm happy to have you point it out. Yes, they are cute, yet still circling each other like predators. Second guessing all the time. A complicated relationship given that Hannibal is a man whose mind is not set with the same values as normal people. I have derived his affection for Will to another, because he seeks acceptance from Will, he wanted to make him embrace his darkness. By meeting a woman who loves him despite knowing his secret, it tips the balance to something much less destructive than the TV show. BUT, Hannibal is still Hannibal. Unpredictable Hannibal… Anyway. I think you will be surprised by the ending of this story. You'll let me know, I'm sure, so I'm looking forward to it! **

Hannibal set his fountain pen down with a sigh. The familiar tightness behind his eyelids announced the arrival of a headache that he refused to invite any further. For the moment, there was no way to predict how this game would evolve. Will Graham was nowhere close to piecing together his involvement in the demise of Garett Jacob Hobbs… Hannibal, though, suspected Abigail to know that he was the caller that sent her father into a murdering fenzy. And the recent discovery of Nicholas Boyle's corpse, courtesy of the same infuriating teenager, had cornered him into revealing to Will the unthinkable; Abigail had killed Nicholas Boyle, Hannibal helping her hide the body. For the moment, Will believed his intentions to protect the young woman… But the more he worked with the FBI, the better Will glimpsed into his secrets. Abigail would need to go lest she blurted out something that sent him on the right track. Witness protection program maybe?

One false move and it would be the end. Any action, any new murder could tip the balance. Hannibal felt it as sure as the sun would rise tomorrow, and for once, he wasn't in control of the pieces on the chessboard. Too many alternatives. As for Freddie Lounds, her mad fixation about Wil being a psychopath was strangely soothing … although absolutely off mark. By digging in the wrong direction, the journalist tilted the balance in his favour … and it also meant she had felt the same potential in Will that he had. With the right pushes, he could have been sent him over the edge and made a brilliant murderer out of Will Graham.

But Frances had seen to it that he was treated for encephalitis, his sanity protected, his purity preserved. Her arrival brought solace and difficulties at the same time, and for once, Hannibal resented her for kicking her sandcastle. She, like an overbearing mother, has killed all the fun. Without her, this whole ordeal would be in his control, and Will going along the path of madness.

But he couldn't, not any more. He had promised, first, to stop playing with people's mind. And most of all, despite his resentment, Frances was his responsibility now. He didn't want her to face the American media for being the wife of the Chesapeake Ripper nor the FBI for being an accomplice. Her inability to lie would bring her straight to jail. This was not to be borne; no prison cell would ever see a hair of his wife. No. She took a risk by sticking by his side; Hannibal needed to protect her. And she wouldn't survive loosing him again.

The concerns of a very standard family man, after all. Or nearly normal, for the considerations of others were probably more down to earth than hiding your own murders.

Had Hannibal not controlled his body from the tips of his toes to the last strange of hair, he might have huffed in frustration. For Frances danced in his mind, worry for her well-being, for the responsibility of keeping her safe gnawing at him while he played the complicated chess game of murder-and-seek. Is that how the rest of the world felt? This unwelcome angst and constant worry about another? Children, wife or husband? It was not to be borne!

Hannibal's deep eyes, turned amber by the fire, returned to the letter he was writing. A simple referral for a patient whose psyche was too fragile to handle his imposing presence. How ironic, to be able to discern the slightest of emotion on others, to know exactly what they needed to steer them in the right direction, and be unable to feel them himself. The ultimate humour for the all mighty God above.

The psychiatrist signed the letter, his hand practised as his fountain pen drew the words like a work of art. Broad strokes and fine strokes, just like his father taught him while he fondled with his quill as a child. Despite technology, Hannibal never lost the fondness for writing by hand. Like his wife who enjoyed stitching with a needle in hand, he found the moves soothing. The application of ink to a blank page creating a pattern of words, words becoming a sentence, sentences creating an image in the reader's mind. This was true power.

His mind returned to Freddie Lounds … how could the stupid journalist be manipulated to his advantage? Should he allow her to write Abigail's book? Certainly not. The horribly rude woman must remain away from Abigail's fragile mind.

_knock knock_

Hannibal didn't start at the noise; he recognised this quiet way of making the visitor's presence known. Low enough for him to ignore it if he was busy.

— "_Come in, wife_"

The tone was stern, tired and Hannibal righted himself. Ever since he tried to open the door to his emotions – scarce as they were – his anger ran a little more freely. Did she truly deserve it? Her demands deprived him of his favourite sport, but he was free to reject it. The responsibility fell upon his shoulders and he reined his expression immediately, dark eyes focusing on the scarcely lighted room.

The door opened gently, Frances' lovely face peeking in. Her eyes took in his state at once. Choosing to ignore the simmering anger hidden behind his stone expression, she coaxed instead. In French, as usual.

— "_It is late, darling. Won't you come home_?"

Home. Their home. Who would have guessed, nary half a year ago, that his house would have become home to another? A quick glance at the clock told him that, for once, he had lost track of time as he worked. Seeing the hesitation on his face, Frances offered an alternative.

— "_Would you like more time to finish whatever you were doing?" _

— _"No. I'm too tired to think straight, I will clean up now._"

Frances doubted it; whatever the situation, Hannibal always remained consistent. His brain simply ran too fast, too far ahead no matter the urgency. A pure mind unfazed by emotions.

— _"All right"_

She seemed unsure, standing beside the patient's chair now. Her high heels were slightly muddy and despite the dim light, the flush of her cheeks was unmistakable. Hannibal paused, taking a moment to contemplate the additional colour that complimented her pale skin.

— "_Did you walk again?" _

— _"Yes"_

Hannibal broke eye contact to close his notebook and set his fountain pen in the drawer.

— _"Why_?" came his curious voice.

— _"I enjoy it."_

For a moment, everything was silent as they gazed upon each other. The crackling of the fire basked the room in a fleeting light, his desk lamp the only other source. Frances walked up to him and, taking his hand in hers, tugged to dislodge him for the armchair.

— "_Come, Hannibal. Let's have a drink_"

The idea held some appeal, and the psychiatrist allowed his wife to lead him to the divan where he reclined. His eyes followed her graceful gait as she disappeared under the arches, long calves emphasised by the ice skating and the elegant heels she was wearing. For a while, Hannibal just watched the fire burn, wondering if his life was going to take the same route. Until Frances walked into his life, it didn't matter much if he had to dodge the FBI and disappear from the United States. There were plenty of escape plans ready to be set in motions. But now … he had a wife to cherish and care for. Losing everything again, losing Will's friendship could only bring her more grief.

The woman in question appeared silently by his side, handing him a glass of whiskey. The psychiatrist raised his eyebrows at her choice of liquor; a strong, stiff drink that she didn't enjoy herself.

— "_You look like you need it_," she said, settling beside him on the divan.

Hannibal raised his rounded glass to her, inwardly giddy when he saw how her eyes devoured him from head to toe. Reclining a little more, the psychiatrist uncoiled his lean body upon the plush surface.

— "_To your perceptiveness, my wife_"

The first mouthful burned his throat, taking his thoughts away from the mess he had created in the first place. Her eyes never left him, lingering on his lips as they moulded around the glass.

— "_I'd be a poor wife if I couldn't decipher your state of mind."_

Hannibal paused for dramatic effect, his hand going over his bent knee, eyes twinkling.

— _"Many of my acquaintances have poor wives."_

Her mouth opened and closed then, the comment discarded as she watched him raise the glass again. Perhaps she had decided that pointing how different he was from his acquaintances was useless; no one better than him could measure the abyss that separated him from other people. Even Frances, despite her great empathy and attempts to understand him at every turn, didn't get more than half of what went through his mind. A peculiar, very abnormal human on this planet. One that had walked its paths fifteen hundred years ago in another skin.

— _"To your health, my husband"_

Then Frances scooted closer, sitting on the edge of the sofa as her hands landed upon his face. The contact sent tingles under his skin, warmth diffusing under her palms. Hannibal closed his eyes then, giving her full control. Frances started a soothing massage – probably a Japanese technique of shiatsu – to relieve his tense muscles. Her warm fingers worked gently, caressing his skin with tenderness and love. From head to temple, temple to cheekbones, Frances pressed and caressed. Then she descended around the muscles of his mouth and he authorised his jaw to slacken under her touch, lips following the movement of her deft fingers. A soft kiss greeted them, light as a feather before she started working upon his chin and neck.

Hannibal allowed the massage to lull his mind to a blissful state until she started tugging at his tie. A small smirk quirked his lips up as he heard her frustration; a full Windsor knot was much more difficult to unbuckle than the standard four in hand. If he didn't help, he might very well end up hanged.

— "Let me," he purred, hands overlapping hers.

As his nimble fingers loosened the knot, he felt Frances' lips linger upon his cheekbone. Good; she wasn't upset over the failure. Her plump lips left the softest of caresses before she dipped to his jaw, flicking her lovely tongue across his sharp chin. Hannibal reclined into the divan, his body relaxing under her ministrations.

His collar was exposed now, tie discarded, and slowly, her mouth nuzzled his throat, then lingered in the hollow just above his chest. As she tasted him there, waistcoat and shirt were unbuttoned slowly. Her hands slid below the fabric, soft and warm against his skin; her mouth followed the trail downwards. For the smallest of moments, Hannibal wondered how his perfectly ironed shirt would handle her attentions before discarding the idea altogether. She was now playing with his belly button, her little nose tickling the sensitive skin before diving further down. Needless to say, that he loved where this was going. Neither of them was believers than sex solved anything, but it could occasionally relieve some tension.

Frances played with the belt of his pants, fingers caressing his flesh below the fabric before she came back up to give him a searing kiss. Her lips were so soft, so inviting that he wound his free arm around her shoulders to taste her a little longer. By then, she was entirely sprawled against him, quite aware of his awakened desire. Frances gave him a sweet smile and pulled back to contemplate his relaxed features. The fire painted him in shadows and light, like a painting of old and she couldn't help but find him magnificent.

— "Drink," she said.

And he obeyed, gulping another mouthful of whiskey before she pried the glass from his hands and set it down. It felt nice to let her take charge, for once. Usually, his little kitten only responded to his whims, be they tender or domineering. Yet, the Keeper of Time always knew when to lead, and today was the day. Today, Hannibal experienced the comfort of shedding the mantle. She kissed his lips once more, pressing her body against his in such a sensual manner that his hips titled upwards to meet her. Control … surrendered. Damn body who betrayed him! A mischievous twinkle brightened her warm chocolate eyes before her tongue traced a trail down his chest. Further down … way down.

She pushed him into the comfort of the psychanalyst divan, and when her lips engulfed this very sensitive part of his anatomy, Hannibal knew he would never see this sofa the same way again. She worked his body like an artist would play the violin, her hands caressing his exposed skin, her mouth gentle and loving, coaxing him into surrendering control. And surrender he did, his head falling backwards as he accepted her power over him. His long fingers laced into her fiery mane, relishing in the softness of her curls as she gave him all her attention. In this moment, she didn't feel so young anymore.

There was nothing remotely vulgar in this embrace, the gift she was bestowing upon him so sensual, so intimate that he nearly forgot in own name. Moans and grunts escaped his lips as she pleasured him, his mind absolutely unable to form coherent thoughts. How good it felt, for once, to allow his brain to blank while his body was worshipped. He cried out in release, but she didn't let go until every single muscle has relaxed entirely. Keeping him enclosed, accepted, not discarded away. This wasn't mating, this was love. Then she buttoned his pants anew, and came to rest upon his chest, listening to the staccato of his heartbeat with satisfaction. The crackling of the fire was the only noise beside the heaviness of his breath, and Hannibal stroked her hair while she shared her warmth.

— "Thank you," he eventually whispered.

The young woman lifted her head to give him an almost smug look. Her hair sat in disarray, victim of his hand's wandering in a moment when control had slipped off; it gave her an untamable appearance. Something closer to the truth than her regular curls or her classy clothing. But he, only, knew to what length Frances could go for him. For she was a shy woman in the bedroom. Still, she endeavoured to give him as much pleasure as he gave her. And today, she knew she had been efficient. Oh, she was proud of herself, his little kitten, leaving him panting on the sofa like a marathonian. God knew she was the only one who would ever see him so vulnerable. Frances pecked his lips, then lifted an eyebrow playfully as she rearranged his shirt.

— "See, apart from the occasional wrinkle, your suit had not suffered from my ministrations."

— "My shirt couldn't be further from my mind at the moment."

— "I don't think I believe you, Dr Lecter. The thought must have crossed your mind."

A full bloom smile decided to settle on his features despite his effort to quell it. How well she knew him, his little lady.

— "All right" he relented. "It has."

Her lips teased the corner of his mouth, letting him know that his weird way of thinking didn't bother her in the least.

— "Hannibal?" she breathed.

— "Yes, princess"

The title seemed fitting. Neither derisive, nor mocking, but truthful. There was so much nobility in that woman, so much acceptance given away that she should have been royalty. For the moment though, she could be his princess, and it was more than enough.

— "Every time you feel like killing someone, claim me."

Her words would have appalled a lesser man, but Hannibal was analytic first and foremost. A different mind for a different man. Hence the absence of venom in his voice, the emotion replaced by genuine curiosity.

— "Are you selling your body to me?"

Frances snorted, shifting slightly to reposition her body alongside his.

— "Hardly. There is nothing I enjoy more than being your sheath."

Hannibal was no stranger to this Japanese image where a warrior's wife was considered his sheath. The safe place where the sword could be put at rest. Once more, Frances aimed true by calling forth such a notion, calling to a culture they both admired. His knuckles gently grazed her cheek, his eyes firmly set upon her face. Wondering how in the world he deserved such understanding. Realising that despite all the worries it brought him, being loved unconditionally was worth it, especially when that woman was a legendary warrior. She had such a capacity to love; her heart knew no boundaries. Hannibal nodded then.

— "The Japanese way, yes. The sword…"

— "… is more than adequate"

Hannibal chuckled this time, tugging at a strand of wild hair. Yes, he knew exactly how she loved every part of his anatomy. They were just perfect for each other in every sense.

— "I was going to say eager to return to its resting place."

Frances nodded, looking him in the eye once more. Gone was the playfulness, giving way to a more serious expression.

— "If I put conditions on your hobbies, I need to provide the means, right ?"

— "I'll keep that in mind."

And Frances kissed him once more before settling upon his chest again, a happy sigh passing her lips as she curled in his warmth. Hannibal tightened his hold upon his kitten, half expecting her to mewl and purr in delight as she drifted to sleep in his arms. Reaching for her head, he tucked her below his chin in a tender gesture. Life was certainly sweeter now.

**_As usual, if you enjoyed reading this, please leave a little review ! Comments feed my muse. Let me know your likes and dislikes._**


	18. Chapter 18 - Nothing but the truth

**_Hey. Lots of dialogues here because Frances had to come clean regarding her status if she wants to keep Will as a friend. Let's see how poor Will swallows the news of time travel, shall we? This chapter is rather long, I hoe you enjoy this time with Will and Frances._**

**_Anyway. Among my 15 new followers, will any of you leave a review ?_**

**_To Koba: no, no cliff diving this time. But I trust you won't see it coming either way. Or so I hope._**

— "Are you calling my driving dull?"

Will's mock outburst sent Frances into a fit of giggles and she relaxed in the passenger seat. There was nothing common between Will's car and Hannibal – standard and smell included – and nothing remotely similar regarding their driving. Where every single move from her husband was controlled, Will's driving bordered on carefree, his trajectory tilting when he wasn't careful. It didn't matter much, though, for the design of the road and automatic gearbox rendered driving as easy a child play. Somehow, it irked her.

— "Nah. It's not you. It's just … those straight roads that never end, and your cars bigger than horse butts … and this automatic gearbox … it's like you don't even have to drive anymore."

— "It's convenient," he replied, eyes leaving the road to take a peek at her frustrated features.

She almost looked childlike as she pouted.

— "It's boooooring. Boring to death. There's no control with an automatic, I hate it when a machine takes decisions in my stead … but it's not like you need any on those endless roads. I bet the Victoria falls are narrower than your motorways"

Will's eyebrows climbed to his hairline, surprised by the unexpected venom in her voice. The empath wore his emotions on his sleeve, another streak that couldn't be more opposite than Hannibal's. As for Frances … she could be as open as him, or closed off like an oyster with a poker face that rivalled Hannibal's. It had taken a while for him to get used to her duality and it felt like he was coming close to the conclusion. Somehow, the mask had a purpose. And in his presence, it tended to drop to reveal the real, chatty and slightly emotional Frances. Especially when she ranted about the US.

— "Driving is dull anyway … it takes you from point A to B, right? What do you need control for?" he said.

— "I don't know. I just… My car is my tool, you know. I take care of her, and she responds to my desire. An extension of my will…"

— "So is mine. A tool. Just a machine"

Taken aback, Frances tried to make sense of the anger that simmered under the surface. Her silence was misinterpreted as Will's fingers drummed on the steering wheel.

— "Say it. You hate my driving! That's why you insist on shaking me like salad in a bowl in your blue devil of a car."

The sudden plea shook the cogs of her mind and she jumped in her seat to swat Will's arm.

— "No! Silly. And my driving is energetic, not salady!"

Will gave her a sly look.

— "So you say, my stomach disagrees."

— "Ah shut up. You're just a baby… I just miss Europe."

The empath smirked, satisfied that his mock offence had coaxed her into spilling her guts.

— "What do you miss?" he asked, trying to impersonate Dr Lecter's tone.

It worked, for Frances started talking animatedly, her hands flying as she described her beloved continent.

— "Everything. The historical buildings and ruins you will find at every turn, the cobbled streets and narrow roads, the stone churches and old farmhouses."

— "Yeah?"

His interjection was just for show… Frances wasn't even present anymore as she described places from memory. Things of the past that seemed out of her grasp altogether, and brought her as much joy than sadness.

— "It is magnificent, you know, so different from one place to the other. A mere five hundred kilometres and the world is different. France, Italy, Scotland… The Alps, with their high peaks and rough granite, drive a few hundred kilometres south and you get lost in a field of olive trees with cicadas driving you mad and the Côte d'Azur."

— "I'd love to see that."

Frances paused, cocking her head aside as she considered the possibility.

— "I'd love to give you a tour."

— "Where would you take me?"

There wasn't a shortage of answers; Frances loved travelling, and had visited many countries with her parents as a child. She retained from those times many fond memories.

— "The mountains, for a while. We would get lost in a refuge for a few days, watching the sun paint the peaks ablaze and walking on a glacier. Then south of France, crossing to Italy down the coast, all the way down to Sicily and the Eolian Islands. Then we would tour England, Stonehenge, Tintagel in Cornwall, then up to Scotland to see the lochs. Perhaps up to Norway, I'd love to visit there. And I'll take you to the best chocolate maker I ever tasted…"

Will listened to her ramblings with a smile on his face, shaking his head from left to right. It was easy to forget the reasons why Dr Lecter married such a young and passionate woman; from the outside, they looked nothing alike apart from their classy appearance. But from the inside… They both revered good cuisine, spoke many languages and enjoyed the fine arts. Literature, music, dancing, painting… The two of them were European to the core, rejecting entirely many American habits that didn't appeal their old-fashioned mind. Especially bagels…

He would never forget the day he had offered Frances a bar of Hershey's chocolate. She had gagged, her horrified gaze turned to Hannibal as her nose scrunched. "Why does it smell like vomit?" she had blurted out. And while he retrieved his offering with ill humour, Dr Lecter had patiently explained how the 'Americans' – it sounded almost like an insult at this point – had incorporated some butyric acid into their chocolate, a component that was created in the stomach through digestion. His uneasy expression, though, sold him out. The smell did assault his sensitive nose just as much.

Will shook his head at the memory.

— "You and Hannibal make quite the pair," he eventually said.

A sly smile quirked Frances' lips, giving her a catlike expression.

— "You know that man has pickles in his fridge."

— "So do I"

The young woman scoffed.

— "No! Ugh, no! Not those horrible sweet-sour giant things that you call pickles. Real French ones from Dijon! I never found some anywhere, but he's got some and keeps them for me now"

Will blinked.

— "All right, this is weird," he chuckled.

And Frances' own giggle joined his as she dove into another memory.

— "My grandmother, from burgundy, she always threw a fit when I stole pickles as an afternoon snack. I used to dip them in mustard."

— "This is gross."

By now, Will was shaking with laughter and Frances couldn't help but exaggerate to keep him going, describing how the mémé spoke, her accent so thick that even her granddaughters had trouble understanding her. She even imitated her deep rumbling 'r' that resembled Scottish so much that Will had trouble driving in straight line. After a while, they eventually recovered from the fit, Frances brushing tears off her cheeks. It was so good to share this moment of mirth with Will. His shoulders were relaxed, his eyes connecting with hers more often, his teeth showing as he openly laughed.

— "Burgundy, man! Pickles from Dijon, in burgundy. The place they make the best mustard in the world."

— "Definitely Dr Lecter material," Will stuttered as he regained control.

— "Yeah, we were just meant to be."

_Three hours later_

The sun reflected in the ripples of the river, its light creating lines and sparks in the transparent water. Entranced, Will watched the waves that passed his legs, sensing the strong current that caused him to brace against it. Beside him, Frances watched her fishing line intently, her hair slightly dishevelled by the wind. There was nothing like water to soothe her mind, and she enjoyed this moment just as much as he did. Even if, for now, the little fish they had caught wouldn't be sufficient for lunch.

The image of an unsettling dream suddenly lashed before Will's eyes and he startled; he had forgotten about it.

— "What's wrong?" Frances asked as he repositioned his feet on the pebbles below the surface.

— "You know. I had this weird dream recently where you swam in the waves with a medieval night shift."

His musings caught her attention at once, and her warm hazel eyes searched his for a second before she returned to the float bobbing in the current.

— "Oh, really? tell me about it"

— "I was on a cliff… Somewhere on a shore, with big waves. There was a blond knight beside me, the same as before…"

— "Long tangled hair?" she asked.

— "Yes."

Frances nodded, a fond smile quirking her lips.

— "Gawain"

The name rang a bell deep within his soul. Yes, Gawain. His brother in all but blood, the closest friend he had in this forsaken time. Once more, Will wondered how Frances could remember so much when he barely caught glimpses and visions, ignoring names and places. Something didn't add up, but he continued with his story.

— "Yes. He was yelling beside me that you were going to catch your death but you still swam. Your shoulder was bandaged, so you couldn't use your left arm. And there was someone … this ghost on shore, waiting for you. The tall knight … the scout"

Frances suddenly froze, her knuckles whitening on the rod. Her sharp intake of breath betrayed her as she searched his gaze, the line of her face plainly shocked.

— "I … saw him too. I thought I was mad … but when I came close, he just disappeared."

Will nodded, fishing forgotten as he lowered his own rod. The time had come to demand answers.

— "How do you remember all of this, Frances? Have you had dreams for long? Visions? I have only a mosaic of things, but you seem to remember everything so easily. What is the difference between you and me?"

The young woman sighed, for once fleeing his gaze to put her attention on the line.

— "Don't you have memories when I'm not there?"

— "Some. Yes. But you didn't answer my question."

Frances took a deep breath, her fingers shaking slightly upon the fishing rod. A solemn atmosphere suddenly fell upon them, as if nature itself was holding its breath.

— "This is the moment where I swear to tell the truth and nothing but the truth."

The teasing tone was there, but her voice slightly shook.

— "I'm ready"

— "Don't be so sure, Will. What I'm going to tell you is much, much weirder than believing in past lives."

— "Humour me"

The young fiery observed him for a moment, stunned to find such determination in a man who usually shied away from conflict. Yes. He definitely was ready, and coming clean would give her more leeway regarding their future interactions. She was sick to death of lying. Frances nodded then, her jaw tightening slightly as she thought about how to break the news. She dearly hoped she wouldn't lose him that his friendship was strong enough to resist this. The words tumbled from her lips in disarray.

— "All right. So … erm. The reason why I remember all those moments of your past life is because I was there."

— "So was I?" came his puzzled response.

— "No. I was there, not my past self."

— "Explain"

The intensity of this little world reminded her of Tristan so badly that she smiled. Who knew the 'pup' – aka Galahad – would become so forceful in his future life? So focused, so dedicated?

— "I am not, like you and Hannibal, a reincarnated soul. I met Tristan and Galahad, a year and a half ago roughly. I travelled through time, and met you in person"

Will's face invaded her personal space so suddenly that she nearly tumbled backwards. Rough hands kept her from falling – the grip strangely firm – encasing her shoulders as his clear blue eyes searched her soul. She knew he was using his gift, right now, to assess whether she was plain crazy of lying to him. A different approach from the clinical Dr Lecter – pure empathy at work – but just as efficient. And he found… Nothing but the truth.

— "You are telling me that time travel is real," he whispered, the words nearly covered by the stream's chanting.

— "It was, for me."

Will released her shoulders and Frances repositioned her legs in the water. His eyebrows, though, were still scrunched in thought.

— "Was?"

— "I was the Keeper of Time, Will. But I don't hold the title anymore."

The empath repeated the title under his breath several times. 'Keeper of time,' he muttered, and she wondered if he was going to laugh or yell. But his next question was borne of curiosity, and Frances marvelled that he hadn't called the psychiatric ward to have her committed yet. Will was made of sterner stuff than people believed. Or perhaps he was gathering the facts before he would form an opinion. An FBI approach.

— "Why not?"

— "I'm … a copy of the Keeper of Time"

This time, Will huffed, his sight getting back to the fly bobbing up and down in the current.

— "This is going to be a long day."

— "If it is too much…"

He interrupted her with a hand up.

— "Tell me everything, I want all the facts."

And so she did, starting at the beginning, and explaining about how she became the Keeper of time, about the worlds she had visited – middle earth included – and how she came to be cloned by Loki, an alien of the Asgard race, then dumped into a world without magic nor a Stargate to get her home. Another fish caught their line, and in the time it took to take him off the hook, Will tried to regain his bearings.

The sheer amount of information was rattling his brain. But it took its toll on Frances as well as she started shaking in the stream. The cold, perhaps, or the emotional strain of reviving those memories that were not so distant. Friends, family, life discarded because a little grey butt – damn Loki! – wanted to study the Keeper of Time. But on the other hand, finding her friends anew, Tristan and Galahad, was priceless … with a cruel twist indeed. From ruthless knight, Tristan had become a serial killer… But this she couldn't share. One last secret that would remain hers until death. The identity of the Chesapeake Ripper. One more lie. A big, heavy lie that gnawed at her conscience day by day, especially since Will was on the hunt. Hopefully, the absence of recent kills would him them off Hannibal's scent. Hopefully, she wouldn't have to be caught in those awkward discussions anymore, wouldn't be the ham in the sandwich of Tristan and Galahad's ill temper again.

Still weakened by the pneumonia, Frances felt the cold creep up her limbs, stiffening her gait until the old ache stirred at her collarbone. The young woman tried to massage her shoulder to ease it up, and her gesture called Will's attention.

— "That's your old wound. The bolt you took to save Lancelot."

— "Yes. It never quite healed properly."

Will's eyebrows got lost in the mop of dark curls atop his head.

— "Even though you are a …?"

The words were missing.

— "Clone, copy?"

— "Yeah"

— "Even though my body was created by the masters of genetic manipulation in the universe. I think a memory embedded itself there."

The empath mused on the notion and, taking advantage of the quietness, dragged Frances out of the river to build a fire. He showed her how to prepare the fish on a spike, and she could only regale him with tales of their camping in the Brittonic weather fifteen hundred years ago. As the fire crackled gently beside them, Frances scooted closer to warm her hands.

— "And Hannibal … he believes it?"

The young woman bit her lips, remembering how her beloved husband had dubbed her crazy. Or traumatised. Or schizoid in the first place.

— "He had trouble at first."

— "I can understand why. This is batshit crazy."

Her laugh tinkled in the relative silence, but as usual when Hannibal was mentioned, a fond expression blossomed on her face. Will couldn't help but soften at this.

— "I know … especially for a man like him."

Will nodded, thinking about Tristan. The age difference didn't mean shit when it came to those two; Frances had seen war and death, her experience giving her the advantage of experience. She had every right to stand by Hannibal's side. Her understood now why she held her ground so forcefully, why she fought like she did. Why she never flinched under Dr Lecter's glares; that goddamn woman was the Keeper of Time. She had tamed Tristan for God's sake, the untamable scout of King Arthur. Wow!

— "Do you believe me?" she eventually asked.

— "As crazy as it seems … yes. It explains a lot. I will still need some time to wrap my head around it."

— "If you need some time away from me…" she started.

— "No. I just need time, that is all."

Her face fell then, and Will couldn't help but ache for her. There was so much sadness buried in her soul… The aftermath of war perhaps? Or was it something else? Her revelations were a lot to take in, and his mind was swirling around the implications of it all.

— "Yeah, it was less than two years ago."

Suddenly, the realisation crashed upon him.

— "And your family …?"

— "Is lost to me, but they live on with the other Frances."

Her voice cracked a little then, and Will's chest tightened for her. Her understood now, what she had tried to convey on that fateful day in the snow. Family, friends, life, purpose. There was nothing left of her except her memories and her soul in this foreign world. He couldn't fathom how it would feel, to be uprooted and planted elsewhere without warning. Scooting closer, Will lifted his arm for her to nest against him, and she cuddled in his warmth.

— "I'm sorry"

Frances nodded against him, the move reverberating in his chest. And for once, the empath didn't feel so ill at ease with human contact. Somehow, the young woman didn't send bells of alarms in his body like the others did. Well, all the others except for Alana.

— "I was hoping you and Hannibal could be my family now," she eventually said.

Will latched onto this line of hope with all his might, desperate to find something positive in her ordeal.

— "I'd be a great brother," he said with conviction.

— "You ARE a great brother," she responded.

And his dreams and visions swam before his eyes once more, Galahad's soul speaking to him in earnest as he hugged the former Keeper of Time to his side.

— "And you got Hannibal… See you've found Tristan again. And for the record, I knew something was fishy between you two."

Frances lifted her head from his shoulder, her eyebrows comically scrunched together.

— "Uh?"

Will tapped his temple playfully, his incredible eyes twinkling. So easy to read…

— "Galahad. He knew something was going on."

— "Right. I'm not one for one life stands."

The notion forced a chuckle out of him. One life stand.

— "Good one. How did the knight greet your humour back then?"

— "Very well. It was a good era for humour. Arthur and the knights had plenty of it. Nothing like the renaissance and all its falseness,"

Will smiled then; he couldn't wait to ask for more anecdotes about the knights. But first, a thought was pulling at his brain.

— "Hey. Speaking of one life stand. You think Alana and I were married back then?"

— "I don't know, you were so young when I left, and not free to marry yet. I don't recall seeing her at the fort but honestly, I didn't get much time to bond."

The empath nodded under her piercing stare. Alana and he were getting close, and he hoped that she might accept … him? Frances chose not to pry, giving him space until he decided to speak of it plainly. He appreciated it and, unhooking the trouts from their spike, he stirred the discussion back to the fifth century. He couldn't wait to know more.

— "My writings are almost finished," she said. "You will be able to read it soon."

The fish was delicious, smoked by the fire and perfectly cooked despite the absence of fancy herbs and presentation. A nice change from Hannibal's cuisine which could, in the end, be slightly overwhelming such was its finesse.

— "You know, Gal… Will. I think you remember much more from your ancient life than you let on."

— "What do you mean?"

— "The fish over a campfire, for example. It is what we ate before Arthur's wedding."

The empath gave her a lopsided smile; his mind had trouble wrapping around the fact this woman, her very flesh and bones, had attended King Arthur's wedding. And danced with him. Wow. Questions after questions formed in his mind, and caught in the discussion. He couldn't even remember half of them as he asked about Briton, about women and fellow knights, battles and food, about Arthur the great King and legends. Frances answered to the best of her abilities, laughter barely contained as she described the companionship between their tight group of knights. But sadness always lingered. And on and on they talked until a familial mop of red curls invaded the place and Will stood up like a clown springing from a box, his foot kicking at the embers in his haste. Frances jumped to her feet, alarm bells ringing at once.

— "Freddie Lounds" he said, a mere breath away from a hound's growl.

— "Damn!"

The journalist stalked up to them like she owned the place, and Frances doubted that she was in full possession of her wits for she didn't stop more than three feet away from them. Everything in their posture was hostile, threatening even in Frances' case. The young woman was already gritting her teeth now; that woman had dubbed Will 'a psychopath' for God's sake. But Freddie Lounds didn't seem to care about body language as she quipped.

— "How funny that the girl with no past ends up tangled with you. What would her lover say?"

— "We are hardly tangled."

Will's stern voice called a smile to Frances' lips. Trust the empath to take Freddie's words literally. Was he hoping to take her off the Keeper of Time's peculiar arrival?

— "You know this is not what I meant, but I might reconsider my opinion. You two seemed awfully cosy."

— "Not that's it's any of your business, but I know what my HUSBAND might think, he's just too polite to tell you to fuck off. Me, on the other hand…"

Unfazed, the journalist just gave her a saccharine smile.

— "Ow, insults, really? When I think I was coming here to offer to write a book for you."

Frances scoffed openly, sharing a glance with Will who was content to let her vent her frustration on the woman.

— "I can write on my own, thank you very much. And I, at least, check my sources."

The jab sent a smile to Will's lips. Given what Frances wrote at the moment… Who could possibly claim to have direct information about the knights of the round table? Their shared amusement caused Freddie's eyes to narrow.

— "So do I"

— "If you still think Will is a psychopath, I hardly think so."

How could that woman be so stupid? Too focused on Will, the last bit of conscience of the knights of the round table, the most luminous of them all, when she couldn't see that the Chesapeake Ripper was at her doorstep? How could they all ignore the predator looming behind the indifferent look and classy suits? Had they not seen the fangs he sported when he smiled? In the past, at least, people knew to stay clear from Tristan.

No one would ever know that from tender and tame, Hannibal's ruthlessness held no equal when he took control? Could a woman be more fooled on appearance than that despicable piece of journalist? Did she not see past the pristine three piece suit that adorned the psychiatrist very taut body?

Seeing Frances' incredulous look, Freddie Lounds actually pouted.

— "So I take it you are not interested."

This time, Frances laughed mirthlessly, eyeing the dangerous woman in front of her. Today, people fought with words, influence and politics. Give them a sword and they would all crumble to dust. Freddie Lounds was no better than a low-class politician, and it called her anger. How she despised people like this!

— "I wouldn't trust you if you were the last woman on earth, Scarlet fever. Your presence is a disease to this world, your lies poisoning minds like copper imbibes the soil."

— "And a poet as well. My my…" she nearly purred, her voice slick with saccharine.

Will's eyebrows shot up at the venom contained in Frances' words. He had never seen her so riled up, and was starting to worry. The panther was on the prowl, her body coiled as she slurred.

— "Now if you could just disappear from our sight, it would make the evening much more enjoyable."

Freddie Lounds sneered.

— "I have every right to be here, this is a public place."

Will pinched the bridge of his nose wearily.

— "Freddie…."

— "No, I won't be deterred. Did you know that your friend here appeared out of nowhere? That she doesn't even have a country of origin? That even the air force interrogated her? Doesn't it make you curious?"

So she had interrogated the nurses at the hospital… Damn woman. Frances didn't know if it was Freddie's shrill voice that send her over the edge, but her patience had reached its end. Where she should have brushed the woman away and packed her things without a word, the former Keeper of time let the anger, the rage consume her and grabbed Freddie's collar, levelling her the fiercest glare. This time, the woman flinched and backed away, surprised by the intensity of her wrath.

— "Hey!" she said, tumbling back.

— "Lots of people get drowned in public places," Frances ground out.

— "Frances…"

Will's voice was drowned by Freddie's shriek.

— "Is that a threat?"

— "A promise, Scarlet fever. Don't get caught trespassing … or you'll find yourself scattered to the wind before my husband can sue you for harassment."

And in this very moment, Frances could actually see crimson ashes dancing in the wind, the remains of the most stupid journalist of humanity, and she relished in the thought. Maybe she could launch Hannibal on her … he would enjoy the challenge. A warm hand over her forearm prevented her from drowning in the fantasy.

— "Don't, Frances. She's recording everything."

The young fury turned to the journalist with a feral grin.

— "Is that so?"

Freddie Lounds never knew what hit her; even before fear registered in her brain – that ghost woman was scary as hell, no wonder the airforce wanted her – her handbag was torn from her hands. The young fury strode to the stream so swiftly that both she and Will Graham had issues following.

Frances didn't pause at the bank, her feet splashing the water as she went further into the river. Without waders, the coldness ensnared its icy clutches over her legs; she welcomed it as it kept her attention away from the yelling banshee onshore. Fumbling around useless items – make up, rouge and whatever shit the journalist owned – Frances extracted the recorder and launched it into the river. The device disappeared with a little splash, dragged away by the heavy current. The phone followed under unbearable cries and threats, thrown with so much force that it travelled even further away. Then Frances launched the handbag back to its owner with such force that the content spilled on the grassy bank. Panting, fists clenched, Frances watched the journalist fish for her belongings. By then, her wrath started to abate a notch. It was fortunate; it prevented her from hitting Freddie when she spat in anger.

— "I'll sue you for this."

Frances' voice dripped with sarcasm as she stalked out of the stream, avoiding Will's eyes to prevent from going down her anger high; it was the only thing keeping her together at this point. Hoovering over the knelt journalist, the young woman talked slowly. Deliberately, her tone as deadly as a sharp blade.

— "Please do. You've got no proof, and I can file you up for harassment. My means are greater than yours, my husband's determination just as dangerous. With your legal record, I'm sure you'll win that round."

Freddie Lounds tried to lift her chin in defiance now, but her big eyes couldn't contain the fear.

— "We'll see about that."

Frances stood, giving the woman a harsh glare before circling around and leaving. Though she couldn't help but call over her shoulder.

— "You're welcome to try. Now get the fuck off our lives."

And they both gathered their belongings to leave. Will didn't say a word for a long time, his hands stuck on the wheel as he drove them back. For her part, Frances was feeling the after effect of the adrenalin rush and slowly sunk into her seat, ashamed of herself. What was it with this woman that called for so much anger?


	19. Chapter 19 - Fencing

_**So, Freddie Lounds will be planning her revenge... what did Will think of this ?**_

The drive back was tenser, to say the least, than the inbound journey. For miles, Will ground his teeth, mulling over the altercation with Freddie Lounds. He just didn't know if he should broach the subject or remain silent for the little lady by his side seemed to be boiling. Still … as a FBI consultant, he couldn't let it pass.

Beside him, Frances was shaking now. It wasn't the cold, although her trousers were soaked through up to the knees. No. Now that her adrenalin was crashing down, so were her thoughts. And when Will eventually voiced his opinion, she very nearly burst into tears. Nearly, but not quite.

— "I didn't think you'd be so vicious, but I think you've made your case, you know."

Vicious. Frances released a heavy breath, trying to keep her cool as she ground out.

— "I hope so. I never want to see that woman again."

— "With Freddie, you never know…"

The young woman suddenly straightened in her seat, turning to Will furiously. How could she explain without selling Hannibal out? If Freddie continued digging stuff about them, she might very well lead to a catastrophe. She felt it in her bones, hated her with all her might. Freddie was a fucking ticking bomb! A danger to them all.

— "This woman, she is dangerous. She is going to create… I don't know."

— "I'm not saying you're wrong, Frances…"

Will held no love for the journalist; everything she wrote was hateful at best. Still…

— "I have such a bad feeling about her. And I'm sorry, sorry about my behaviour but I can't bring myself to regret it. I am afraid, Will."

This heartfelt admittance caught his attention.

— "What are you afraid of?"

Her body was shaking so badly now that she hugged her knees, the seatbelt digging into her hips. She couldn't make heads or tails of this hatred for the journalist. Prescience or fear? Everything mingled in her mind. Her inability to tell Will about the Chesapeake Ripper, her guilt, her crushed duty to the world by living with a serial killer … and this dream. This fucking recurring dream that threatened to break her heart again.

How could she breach the subject?

— "I had this dream … in the fifth century, when we were camping in that horribly cold forest on our way to the wall. Tristan was absent from the round table, and none of you remembered him,"

Will paused, his eyes still strained on the road. Night was falling now, coating the landscape in darkness. It made is easier for Frances; she felt less exposed to his scrutiny.

— "Perhaps you were just afraid that it would happen?"

The young woman shook her head vehemently.

— "No. I knew. That day, when I woke up, I knew he was going to die and I would be powerless to save him. The Keeper of Time's sad tale"

— "How were you so sure?" he asked, genuinely interested.

Frances huffed, trying to recall the mixed emotions that had swarmed her mind as she linked her existence to Tristan at the time. Remembering how she knew that every step closer would only expose her to heartache, no matter how she denied the truth. As if becoming his friend could have saved him. As if fate could be changed. But even riding behind him in battle had failed. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she eventually answered.

— "I denied it at first. But deep down, I always watched out for him because I felt it. My heart and my soul knew, my mind just refused to accept it"

Will pursed his lips. Who better than him to understand the battle between guts and rationality? He that could penetrate into a killer's mind and lay out his intentions, dismantle the most obscure of behaviour in less than a minute?

— "All right. What does it have to do with Freddie Lounds?"

— "I see death when I see her."

— "Isn't it a little extreme?"

Frances scoffed, squeezing his arm tight as she pressed her case. Her emotions were all over the place, fuelled by fear and distress. How stable was she, compared to himself? Was Freddie Lounds so far from the truth when she accused them of … whatever?

— "I had this recurring dream about Hannibal dying, lying in a pool of blood in his office. What if they are linked? What if he dies because of her?"

Will mulled over his answer; he certainly didn't want to face Frances' wrath and was sensible enough to know he was walking a fine line.

— "Maybe they are not linked, right? Did you talk to Hannibal?"

Her hands jumped to the roof in exasperation.

— "No! Of course not. How would you take it if I dreamt of your death?"

— "I would want to know."

Silence ensued during which Frances nibbled at her lip thoroughly. Her absence of response caused his stomach to churn until she eventually told him.

— "Duly noted."

No reassurance, barely an acknowledgment. The only sound was the purr of the motor as it protested against the motorway's speed.

— "You haven't dreamt of my death, have you?"

This time, she was quick to dismiss his concerns.

— "No, don't worry. But you know how Hannibal is, right? He'll dismiss it, tell me it is post-traumatic stress disorder."

Will considered his words carefully before trying to steer her in another direction. He knew the young woman to be highly volatile when it came to protecting her loved ones. Hell, she even killed a psychopath, a man far stronger than she was.

— "Yeah. Probably. But have you considered …?"

The empath never finished his sentence, grateful that she found space in her mind to acknowledge his opinion and not rub his betrayal in his face.

— "That I have PSTD? I know I have. It's not like I can talk to a psychiatrist, and Hannibal is out of the question. He's my husband, not my shrink."

— "You have me"

His lopsided smile wasn't lost on the young woman despite the dimming light.

— "You're sweet, and it helps. You're still not a professional, but it does. Still, this is not the question. Mark my words. This dream … it's going to come true, one way or another. And I will lose him again. And when I do, this time, I will not bother to outlive him."

And something cold settled in the pit of Will's stomach. Something certain, as if he knew, too, that the Keeper of Time had resurfaced. If Hannibal died … so would she. She certainly didn't lack the courage. A surge of panic suddenly gripped his heart, and Will looked for the most obvious explanation to calm his racing heart. Tearing his eyes from the road, the empath stared at his friend, eyebrows climbing into his hairline.

— "Perhaps … perhaps you're just relieving his death again."

His distress didn't go unnoticed and Frances settled a reassuring hand upon his arm.

— "Perhaps … perhaps my intuition goes haywire. And I have assaulted this sorry woman for nothing."

But deep down, she knew it wasn't the case. No. It was worse than that. She had remarked the changes in Hannibal; he was more open with her, trying to stick to her ethics, to be more friendly and less calculating. Being more human because of her. And she relished in it, loving him a little more every day as she watched his eyes twinkle and the additional warmth he now displayed towards people.

In her pride, she had failed to acknowledge that she, too was changing. As Hannibal made a step towards her, she was making her own towards him. Her character, too, was evolving to fit him. More ruthless, harsher, less empathetic, more manipulative, more violent. Damn it! Little by little, Hannibal's ways corrupted her mind. The humanity he displayed was taken from her, like two vases leaking through each other, aiming at finding an equilibrium point.

Was it on purpose, or solely the effect of two souls trying to please each other? Frances didn't understand it, yet the evidence was there. Her behaviour towards Freddie Lounds was unacceptable. Never before had her temper got the best of her this way. The Keeper of Time had always found a way to keep composed and respect her peers. This little display of domination, or pure anger and hatred was undignified.

— "What are you thinking?"

Frances sighed. Hannibal would have said 'a penny for your thoughts' and she would have smiled at him. But here, now, she didn't feel like smiling anymore. Still, Will was innocent in all of this, and the words left her mouth before she realised what they meant.

— "You haven't changed, you know. You hated killing back then. Tristan just accepted it as the greater good, but you never did."

And the conversation closed at that, because she couldn't tell him that nothing had changed. Will still recoiled from murder while Hannibal killed with refined pleasure. Just like Tristan did. The dreaded Chesapeake Ripper.

Frances breathed in slowly, the various smells of Hannibal's basement registering in her brain. Humidity, but very little mould. Coldness of concrete, the sharp tinge of metal in a corner and the slight remains of chlorine – bleach. Under their feet, the wide expense of polished concrete had been covered with traditional Japanese mats, allowing the skin of her feet to touch and feel. Toes free from bonds, bokken in hand, hair tightly braided, Frances was ready to face her worst enemy. She lifted her gaze to meet his hazel, their hues greying in the artificial light of the basement. His beardless chin startled her for an instant before she remembered he had never sported a beard. The straight nose and high cheekbones, though, were a dead giveaway.

A slight twitch at the corner of his mouth; Hannibal was obviously enjoying this. Or mocking her, who knew. The meanderings of his mind were so difficult to follow, it made her crazy! And it was the exact reason of their presence here.

After the debacle with Freddie Lounds, her cunning husband had suggested they go fencing … to work out her frustrations. The 'about me' hung in the air, never spoken, but he knew how difficult it was, for her, to accept his ways. How could he not? How difficult to have a man who could read and decrypt her every emotion as easily as he read a book, no matter how closed off she was. A master of the human mind, especially since he wasn't subjected to the same emotions. The ever-exterior observer, the perfect psychiatrist. Except for his motives, of course.

So they went to fence in a club, encased in the restraining protective suit, and played with the needle people called swords for a little while before Frances forfeited. More than fifteen times, she'd been stopped by the club officials, claiming her moves were 'forbidden' as per the fencing code. Too many rules, not enough freedom, and her husband's face not even visible for her to release her frustration. The frustration of being loyal, and very much in love with that man. The biggest failure ever, and Frances left the club with more steam accumulated then released. 'Mild,' she had called that sport … avoiding insults, of course. There had been no pleasure, no muscle memory while waving this tiny piece of needle around.

So when Hannibal suggested Kendo – which he has studied, of course, in his youth – Frances agreed to give it a try. And it worked so much better. The wooden sword accommodated her elvish training much nicer, and she suspected Hannibal to prefer it because it also resembled his old Dao. Well, Tristan's Dao.

Today, there would be no traditional protection – all blows to the face controlled – and just a little padding to outer limbs and chest. A self-constructed outfit of leather that Frances had recreated to mimic her elvish armour. She had sewn Hannibal's as well, choosing a minimalist design to preserve ease of movement and flexibility. Now, they were ready to spar properly. No rules except for love and respect. No restraints and absolute freedom.

And so, this is how Frances inclined her sword to the side, creating an opening for Hannibal to attack. And attack he did. His blow was deflected nearly absentmindedly as Frances stepped aside, surprised by his speed. She shouldn't, really. Sleeping with a man taught you much about his abilities, and she knew he was packed with long, lean muscles. Not the ones from the movies where actors build up vanity muscles. No. Hannibal was a bundle of nerves and long, fatless fibres. The ones that gave speed and explosive strength. The perfect anatomy to surprise and prevail. One swift turn upon her left leg and she was facing him again, her sword brushing his in warning.

His assessing gaze seemed to shine with newfound respect. Their brush in at the fencing club had been fruitless, Frances fumbling with the needle-like sword she'd broken too many times. Here, in her element with a sword that suited her fighting style, her body moved on its own. Training with an elf and a man raised by elves – Estel – had been demanding; her speed and reflexes almost came from muscle memory. And so, the dance began as their bokken clashed. At first, hesitantly, both assessing their partner's strength and weaknesses so as to avoid injury. Needless to say that despite the absence of an edge, the wooden weapon could break bones, create a concussion or even kill someone if used in the right way.

Once both felt confident enough in their opponent's skills, swords started clashing with more force, more speed. And while Frances called forth her past training, recalling moves taught by her illustrious friends, Hannibal started to deviate from traditional kendo. Unbeknownst to him, Tristan's old moves permeated in his fighting style, his feet dancing upon the mat like a skilled artist. He became less predictable, more focused in his blows, the ruthlessness of the knight of old channelled through his rigid mind. A bead of sweat ran through Frances' spine as she deviated the tip of his bokken at the last moment. Damn! She'd left her right side open once more. Aragorn would have had her head for that!

Her counterattack was swift and relentless but Hannibal wasn't caught off guard. His sword brushed her away with graceful strokes, long limbs coiled and graceful, feet dancing with quiet woosh upon the mats. His face kept intense focus, but a few droplets of sweat started running at the back of his skull. Frances took a step back, panting heavily as he lifted his bokken with a smirk. If he was influenced by Tristan's fighting style, he could only outmatch her technique. His aim reached further, his height giving him a fair advantage. Unless…

Unless she fought dirty.

The first blow to his ribs surprised him. Her sword was still locked with his, but her left shoulder had greeted his side rather forcefully. Taking a step back, Hannibal stood tall, watching her like a hawk.

— "Is that how it is little fairy?" he asked, strangely curious.

The nickname only confirmed her suspicions; when fighting, Hannibal used his old soul. There was no anger nor betrayal in his gaze, his head cocked aside, high cheekbones on display as a strand of hair stuck to his temple. The perfect image of Tristan when he faced a worthy opponent in battle. Frances nodded, slightly out of breath. Until now, they had clashed swords only; he probably wouldn't dare laying his hand upon her unless she gave him permission. But this rehearsal still didn't feel true enough. If Frances wanted to work her frustrations out, she needed to see him as the enemy. Which meant winning, at all costs.

This wasn't sparring anymore. This was blind rage, with only a tiny trail of sanity. The anger against herself to have accepted a cold-hearted husband, a killer, the frustration of lying to everyone and remain isolated. The grief of Tristan's loss, the irony of finding him again only to be the Chesapeake Ripper, Il mostro di Firenze.

— "Helmets on, then," he ordered.

How did he do it? To pinpoint the exact moment her control slipped? Without a word, the young woman reached for the kendo helmet to strap it upon her head. How ironic, she thought, when Tristan was the one to fetch a helmet for her before Badon Hill. Another pang in her heart, another reason for it to crumble. How much could it take before it exploded altogether?

The fight resumed, turning instantly into something much more vicious. It took only a few blows for Hannibal to retaliate and Frances was not sorry for the padding. His fists were strong, his strikes as commanding as his presence. Her ribs, hip and back were bruised now, sending waves of pain through her frame; it only fuelled her ire and Frances just grunted, rolling back to reassess her position. Now, it was a fight to the death. A fight with orcs or men alike, a fight with Saxons. The enemy was stronger, and reached further. But her training taught her many moves.

Soon, Frances was but a blur, feigning right, striking left, disappearing in a swift turn and attacking again. That stupid helmet restrained her vision, but she didn't let the limitation deter her. Relentless, unafraid of hurting her opponent as she unleashed upon him the immensity of her angst. Her feet were flying, and somewhere during the fight her mind informed her that she wanted to go back to skating. Dancing! This single moment of distraction earned her a blow behind the knee, sending her sprawling on the ground. Her cheekbone hit the hilt of her own bokken and she cried out. Damn, it hurt!

The pain electrized her, and she rolled away, avoiding the wooden sword by inches. He was upon her the very next second, raining blows that she blocked with an enraged parry. Frustrated, she realised she couldn't pass his defence – his arm was just too long – and threw herself forward. Caught off guard, Hannibal retreated too slowly as she deflected his sword and threw her elbow in his plexus. The psychiatrist staggered back with a hoof and she jumped upon him, tackling him to the ground. He landed with a heavy thud, her own knees scraping harshly on the mat as she pressed the wooden sword to his throat. Time stood still for a moment.

There! The lioness had won. Damn, her body ached all over!

Hannibal tapped on the mattress twice to indicate surrender. Panting, Frances stood, discarding the horrible helmet that prevented her from breathing properly and see from all sides. How she hated the limitation of her field of vision! Passing a weary hand through her sweaty strands, she suddenly felt a familiar tug in the pit of her stomach. Danger! Realising that she had presented her back to a serial killer, she whirled around. Too late.

His bulky form crashed into her body, pinning against the concrete wall. His pupils were dilated, his face an inch from hers, his heavy breath fanning upon her lips, his gaze trapping her. Intimidating, domineering, the alpha male, his blood fuelled with adrenalin and testosterone.

— "So you're the kind of wife that beats her husband now?" he growled.

Frances' heart was beating so wildly that it hurt, her mind in disarray. But the feel of his body close to hers… Danger and longing mingled, like water and flames burning in her veins and she couldn't even recall who she was nor what she wanted.

He choose for her, crashing his lips upon hers in a searing kiss while he lifted her arms above her head. Frances didn't resist, her anger spent as she let him use his superior strength to submit her to his will. He so ever scarcely he took advantage of being stronger. Today, she needed to feel that he could break her, dominate and protect her like nobody could.

Protections, padding and sweaty clothes were discarded in a hurry, Hannibal taking her roughly against the wall as she cried his name in both pain and ecstasy. Bodies intertwined, his hands holding hers fiercely as she bit his shoulder, movements frenetic as they both worked towards their own pleasure. Like the yin and the yang rolling in circles until it turned grey, unable to think in their frantic lovemaking until the peak swept her off her feet entirely.

Spent, Frances collapsed in his strong arms. Hannibal didn't bother to dress as he picked her up and climbed the stairs, plunging them both in a bath, the warm water soothing aches they had inflicted upon each other in this very intense training session.

But despite the aches, Hannibal was pretty satisfied. For the first time since Tobias, he had witnessed her potential fully. He anger was such a drive, so powerful… A mighty woman. And when she waived around him in bed – pretexting the sheets were cold – he had a hard time reconciling between the woman cuddled so cutely and the merciless warrior he had just fought. Should they fight to the death one day … he didn't think he would win. She, just as much as he, wore a mask dutifully crafted and hardly penetrable. The Keeper of Time indeed.

Rubbing her back gently, Hannibal relished in the softness of her curves. One of her legs – long for her stature – , overlapped his, her thigh warm and inviting around his. The perfect sheath for an unyielding man. He'd witnessed, firsthand, the pain it caused her to love him. Still, she was loyal to a fault. Her breath fanned upon his chest, her nose buried in the chestnut curls where she loved to take a whiff of his scent. Little did she know that he did she same with her hair.

When a shiver ran down Frances's spine, Hannibal tightened his grip.

— "You suffer from lack of substance upon your frame, my beautiful."

— "You mean I need insulation?" she said, her words muffled as her nose stay buried in his chest.

Hannibal hummed his assent, amused by the image. Frances had yet to gain a few pounds back after her lung infection; a fact that vexed him for he had cooked more desserts in the past weeks.

— "It's not only for the warmth, you know," she whispered to his neck.

— "I am glad, else you will definitely hate me in summer."

Frances chuckled, her amusement making his chest rumble.

— "It is true that you are my central heating, there's only so much energy a man can summon. As for summer, it doesn't matter, I'll take cold showers in between."

— "In between what?" was his playful retort.

The young woman shifted around, laying her hand upon his chest to rest her lovely chin upon them. Her warm chocolate eyes twinkled and she raised an eyebrow. Hannibal couldn't help it, his lips quirked at her mischievous expression. Did she know how beautiful she was without adornments? Naked, offered, free of artifices and make-up, hair in disarray and rosy lips inviting?

— "So it is for the sex," he deadpanned.

She laughed then.

— "Neither. Although you definitely are amazing in bed."

Hannibal felt warmth spread in his chest; from the heartfelt compliment of a beautiful woman. His hand caressed the side of her face, tracing a slight bruise from an accidental blow.

— "I am glad to hear it."

Frances stretched, her body moulding around his sensually as she reached for his lips, her thighs now pressing in a very sensitive place that begged to be awakened anew. After several months, Hannibal was still surprised about the eagerness of his body regarding her contact. Never before had he found so much pleasure in love making. Satisfaction, yes, but she awakened in him something much deeper. Her kiss sent tingles through his spine, his hands winding of their own accord across her back.

— "Like you didn't know it," she whispered, lips hoovering over his. "I'm moaning your name every day."

— "I've heard more calls to God than to me."

A gentle slap landed on his shoulder as she settled against his chest anew; her favourite spot.

— "Don't get your hopes up, I'm ready for the husband, not for a god in my bed."

— "Nonsense, you are ready for anything if this sparring session is witness. But the sentiment is mutual."

Her eyebrows scrunched together as she lifted her face to him, forgoing his first meaning for the second.

— "Uh?"

— "You are amazing in bed, my wife."

Colour rose to her cheeks almost immediately as she hid in his shoulder, her hand tightening over his chest. Her shyness was cute, betraying her young age whenever sex was involved. Could she ignore how blissful their joining was to him as well?

— "Don't jest. You surely had much better women."

— "I've had many women, Frances, but never enjoyed a presence like I enjoy yours."

Her face disappeared entirely, cheeks flushed and he caressed her fiery hair slowly, wondering how he could explain his meaning. Delving into his mind, Hannibal searched for emotions and sensations, calling them forth with a mighty pull, enhancing them to characterise until he found the way to translate them into words. Then, his accented words sung her praise, long fingers burying into the fiery mane he had come to adore.

— "It is not about technique, Frances. It is about sensuality, the way you are cuddled around me right now, the way your body moves like a dancer even when you are not aware of it. It is about abandon, the moment my name passes your lips when you let go and your whole core tightens around me. About feelings, when your eyes tell me I am the most precious thing in the world."

And he surprised even himself with this bit of poetry, scoffing internally because he had never been such a romantic. What a woman could do to a man! The slight whimper from said woman, the accused, caused him to chuckle until at last, she lifted her lovely eyes to meet him. The swirl of emotion hidden behind her warm chocolate caught him off guard.

— "You are just right for me," she murmured.

Hannibal frowned slightly, a strange sense of belonging washing over him unexpectedly. His heart speaking above his mind. Unsettling. So much that he slightly fumbled with is words.

— "I've never been accepted like this. I have never allowed myself to lose control either. You make me feel both, and for that, I thank you."

Frances smiled, then kissed him anew. A soft, chaste kiss before she lay her head in the crook of his neck.

— "So this is what it was about in the first place. Nor warmth, nor sex. Just… I love you."

Hannibal hummed, kissing her brow. And while she fell asleep in the safety on his arms, his mind wandered many paths; some unsettling, some familiar and some … unknown. And before he succumbed to exhaustion, an idea clear a day popped in his mind; he needed to make an appointment to the courthouse.

_**So, do you see what's coming ?**_

_**I hope you enjoyed this moment of sword fighting and the chaos that ensued. Tough moment for Frances to realise she is not uncorruptible, right ?**_

_**As usual, please leave me a review, it would make my day !**_


	20. Chapter 20 - Look who's driving !

_**Hey ! I'm taking a little break from all my editing/corrections on my novel to get this chapter out before my brain explodes. If you liked it, please leave a review. I've got a lot of followers on this story but not much feedback (except for a few faithful ones, of course, who will recognise themselves). Reviews feed my muse ! Cheers**_

Like most mornings, Hannibal's hand found Frances' skin before the morning light even registered in his brain. Somehow through the night, the young woman had turned away from him, cuddling into a ball facing the door; she never turned her back to an opening. A reflex for people who felt unsafe, one his paranoiac patients could show. But she wasn't mentally sick, except for her case of PTSD. If she had travelled in the wilds with a company of knights of the fifth century, or worse, a dwarf, a wizard, two men and four hobbits – the elf would NOT be mentioned lest his jealousy surged – hunted by wraith riders and foul creatures, she had every right to be anxious about being ambushed. The subconscious always prevailed, no matter what the mind knew. From her writings, he had learnt how dangerous her life had been until now… And this world, being his wife, well… It wasn't as safe as people could think, and Frances knew it well. After all, it was just recently that a serial killer had attempted to kill him. And she slept in the Chesapeake Ripper's bed after all … anxiety was to be expected. Even though, as a couple, they had gone way beyond the initial arrangement. Somehow, he wondered if she still expected death by his hands someday.

Hannibal's fingers curled around her small waist; her soft flesh called for his attention. Frances sighed, scooting a little further back so that her whole body brushed his. Her hips, warm and plush, suddenly rubbed a very specific part of his anatomy that turned very eager. Hannibal's full lips landed on her shoulder, his tongue tasting her warm skin with delight. A soft hum was her only response, and his hand slid over her waist, caressing the warmth of her belly as he pulled her closer. His mouth feasted on her shoulders and nape, suckling, tongue swirling, lips wet with desire as his hand slowly moved further down.

As usual, Frances didn't protest when Hannibal joined their bodies, the quiet gasp quickly swallowed by another moan. Day after day, he enjoyed making love to her at daybreak. At dawn, she was always half-awake, pliable under his hands, her body responding to his every whim. Eyes closed, plush curves and muscles rolling sensually as she unconsciously took him. The moves of a dancer; and even in her state of half sleep, her body responded to his every command. Available for the taking whenever intimacy called to him. Like a dessert on a table or a ripe fruit awaiting to be picked, always ready to welcome him.

Panting, Hannibal caressed every bit of her flesh, tasted every inch of her skin, relishing in her sweet scent, marvelling that, even in sleep, she was always willing to welcome him. They were so evenly matched, even in the most intimate of places. Was this love? Hannibal's body tensed as he groaned his release, long fingers tightening around her throat. Pleasant bliss followed and the psychiatrist gathered the young woman in his arms, gently nuzzling her neck. She reached for his hands, pulling them to her chest before sliding back into oblivion, her breath gently slowing down, her wild curls tickling his neck.

Love. He certainly wished no harm to come to her. Her genuine smiles made his chest flutter, her pleasure calling his pride. Her beauty enthralled him, her courage and intelligence just as much; a worthy woman by his side. And she was HIS. His to love, his to possess, his to touch … his to kill.

Was this love?

Frances stirred sensually in his arms, rolling on her back without breaking the contact. So much for getting back to sleep but again, lovemaking was about sharing energy, and Hannibal always gave his utmost. Her lidded eyes were now peeking at his flushed face; for a moment, the psychiatrist wondered if she could read his mind. Had she guessed his existential interrogations? Cocking his head aside, his eyes detailed the soft curves of her reddened cheekbones, choosing to linger on the rosy lips that begged for a kiss. Neither awake, neither asleep, Frances barely acknowledged the soft touch of his lips before he slid out of bed. Her whimper of disappointment made him smile, as he ran the hot water in the adjoining bathroom.

The least he could do, if his desires had pulled her from restful sleep, was to help her emerge from slumber. A cup of tea would have been ideal, but she would no doubt protest about his absence much more than about the wakeup call. The days where they could linger in bed were scarce. Hannibal plunged the little square towel under the scalding water then wrung it carefully before walking back to Frances.

— 'Close your eyes,' he ordered gently.

Frances complied, and he lay the hot towel over her eyes and forehead with a tender gesture. The young woman hummed her assent; he had introduced her to this Japanese tradition a few months back and gained her approval. Hannibal smiled as she wiped her face with the piece of cloth, cleaning her skin. Frances had never visited Japan, but she would fit in nicely. She loved kendo, adored sushi and had a very strict moral code. She also enjoyed rules, learnt by observation, could push herself much further than she should and had a few habits that seemed very Japanese. Such as the way she folded laundry, sitting in seiza on the floor – remains from her Aikido classes. Or the way she drank Sencha tea, one hand over the bottom of the cup, just like a Japanese lady.

Hannibal wanted to take her to Japan, but for once, he was quite afraid of the questions she would ask. He had avoided talking about his surrogate aunt as much as possible, this ancient love still fresh in his mind. And now … he nearly felt unfaithful. Damn human emotions! The strict minimum of information had been shared regarding the Samuraï armour on display in the corridor, or his skill at kendo … or with the knives.

— 'Must you always be so perfect, darling?'

Frances' comment startled him out of his thoughts. Her warm chocolate eyes watched him carefully now, and he had no doubt she caught the pang of sadness and resignation in his own gaze before he retrieved the towel and kissed her cheek. Perfect. Far from it, especially to her. But he couldn't help who he was and wouldn't change it for the world. She had no choice but to accept it, or begone.

— 'Come, my beautiful. We're going out of the house for Christmas Week.'

His comment caused her eyes to shine brightly. One week, just the two of them was enough to stir her curiosity. But no matter how convincing she was, Hannibal refused to divulge his plans. A surprise was a surprise after all.

Punishment for his silence or facetiousness, Frances was behind the wheel today. Something about 'sharing the responsibility', as she said. And Hannibal had to admit that, for once, it was nice not to be the one in charge, although her driving was way more energetic than his. He'd got sloppy, living in the United States. Perhaps in ten years from now, she would slow down and take turns at a more reasonable speed. Not that it bothered him, really; Hannibal had reflexes that could rival a cat.

Everything he had to do was direct her on the route to take, and see her smile widen each time they took a turn that drew them closer to the Ocean. Hannibal slightly shook his head; she was his first case of 'sea' addiction.

The music switched to a piano piece composed by Ludovico Einaudi, causing Hannibal's lips to twitch. Italy … the country of his dead mother, one they shared a passion with – outside of Japan. Of course, Frances would love this composer, his songs conveyed such emotions … albeit without the technical complexity from a genius like Chopin. The whole Opera board would probably cringe, as he would have, at hearing such a commoner… Einaudi composed for the crowds, loved all over the world by people who knew nothing about classical music, earning scorn and disdain from connoisseurs. Yet, he understood why Frances would love it; her emotions led her so beautifully. And truth be told, Einaudi's pieces had been an excellent exercise as he learnt the harpsichord; they were relatively easy to play for a man like him. But Frances preferred the piano, its sound rounder, softer somehow.

Her body itched to dance as she drove, her head lolling from left to right with the flow of notes. Hannibal resolved himself to play some of those long discarded pieces for her, just to see if she could resist the pull. Ever since she had resumed figure skating, Frances also worked a classical routine to strengthen her muscles and improve her flexibility. She now danced around in the house, from kitchen to dining room, spinning with the plates in hand whenever she set the table or cooked. It was embedded in her, like the blood in her veins. Still, the famous 'Divenire', with all its joy and lightness, failed at chasing away the clouds in his head. His silence shifted from companionable to tense. It didn't take long for Frances to catch his mood, but she left him to his own devices.

For once, the psychiatrist was the one to break the subject.

— 'Have you read Freddie Lounds' latest article?'

His tone was light, almost disinterested but Frances wasn't fooled. Her hands tightened on the steering wheel, her eyes flashing with a dangerous gleam.

— 'No. I don't read rags.'

Hannibal nodded, not the slightest surprised by the venom in her voice. Still, he wondered why the woman chose to ignore what was written about her. Perhaps she didn't want to find out about anything he might have done in tattle crime? A way to protect herself from his crimes? To protect him from …?

— 'Anything interesting?'

Hannibal almost started, catching her intense chocolate eyes. Almost. She was an interesting woman, his soon to be wife.

— 'She wrote about your encounter, mostly.'

Frances shrugged, unconcerned.

— 'Nothing I didn't expect. Why are you mentioning this?'

And smart.

— 'I was wondering whether I should sue her for the lies she spreads about you.'

— 'Bah. If it's about me, she'll never find anything. Won't she?'

Hannibal's eyes narrowed and Frances failed at keeping her façade, for behind the mask her eyes shone with a murderous look. She hated that journalist, and Hannibal would have killed her without a second thought … and maybe Frances would have loved to slit her pale throat herself. Perhaps not. But Freddie Lounds was too close to the FBI now; her disappearance would raise questions and expose them. And Frances would never approve of cold blood murder anyway; his fantasy could eat its heart out. Seeing that he was mulling over things, Frances called his attention again, offering another aperture to the problem.

— 'How about we let her bark the wrong tree? It keeps you safe and relieves pressure on Will'

Hannibal's eyebrows shot up; for a moment, the image of Freddie Lounds trying to climb an oak, hair wild and yelling her grievances to the branches was enough to cause his lips to quirk up. But in truth, there was nothing funny in Frances' statement. Letting the journalist spit her anger over his wife to remove him from the spotlight was an angle he had not considered. Surprising, since he was an expert at protecting himself … yet Frances had become his to protect, not one to be used and discarded as collateral damage. What she suggested was purely, and totally unacceptable! Freddie Lounds was attacking HIS woman and he itched to make her eat her computer. Part by part, slowly. Oh, how he would enjoy seeing her choking to death, her wide stupid eyes frightened ad he picked at his nails.

— 'You're not the wrong tree, Frances.'

Frances shrugged again, reaching for his hand as she didn't need to change gear for a while – the woes of manual transmission; the price of control. A gesture of companionship to ease his worries. It was strange, sometimes, how good it felt to have someone who could read his micro-expressions so accurately. Soothing and frightening all the same, for it meant no secrets.

— 'There's nothing to be found about me. Nothing.'

Hannibal shifted aside to face her completely, puling the zip of his sweater further down to get rid of the itching contact. His tongue ran over his lower lip, his senses concentrated over the slight moisture it left over it. Some pictures were more difficult to visualise than others, and his chest slowly constricted. Was it fear?

— 'Should the government get hold of you… With the national security rules, I'll be powerless to stop them. No amount of money or influence could protect you'

Silence greeted his statement as Frances took in his admission. Being in danger with no hope to survive was nothing new to her; he could see it by the way she came to the dreadful conclusion without missing a heartbeat.

— 'Then I'll perform seppuku without assistance. They probably won't expect it.'

A shudder ran through his spine, shaking him from head to toe. How could she be so nonchalant about her own death? Sometimes, he wondered if she didn't long for it. Speechless, Hannibal could only cover her hand with his other one. Seppuku … not the stupid Hara Kiri invented by the Occidentals. As per Japanese customs; Seppuku was a conscious act, one of death and honour. And had this conversation been purely rhetoric, Hannibal would have agreed that choosing one's death was an act of courage, one performed and not 'committed' like a criminal. He never accepted the occidental view of 'committing suicide', as if it was a crime, rejecting the idea that God should be the only decider in one's life.

His long fingers tightened on hers unconsciously, and his tongue seemed to thicken in his mouth when he spoke next.

— 'I don't want anything to happen to you, Frances.'

The young woman swallowed audibly, her gaze turning distant on the road.

— 'Things happen without us wanting it. Sometimes … they spiral out of our control and we are utterly powerless to stop them.'

Hannibal settled again in his seat. Funny how the role reversal – she driving and him being the passenger – had also switched the balance. Her words could have been one of his quotes; they struck true and hard. His parent's deaths… Mischa's. No amount of control could have saved them; he hated that he had not made his peace with it yet. The earliest trauma carved into his flesh like a brand. The hot iron sign of the devil magnifying his failure, hidden below layer upon layer of finely tailored clothes and manners. Better to delve upon her traumas than his…

The psychiatrist took precedence over the wounded boy, detached demeanour and pointed questions at the ready.

— 'What has happened, Frances, for you to speak thus?'

Would she be willing to play the game and grace him with an answer? Or would she see through his bluff and seek to delve deeper into his own psyche?

— 'Boromir's death. Haldir's. Tristan's as well, dead for a choice I have regretted ever since. Especially since Lancelot screwed up the whole thing!'

Frances' voice was rising again now, anger seeping through, regret as well. Regret for choosing to save Lancelot rather than Tristan like Merlin had asked of her. Hannibal understood her resentment; when reading 'La morte d'Arthur', he had keenly felt the loss of the King and his companions, assessing the waste with disappointment. How such a great man had ended so shamefully because of a woman's affair and his best friend's betrayal… It was sad.

— 'Did you know that he kissed me, that cad!'

The psychiatrist's eyebrows shot up; he didn't know whether he should be amused or…

— 'You left that out of your writings'

Her tingling laugh echoed in the car, and Hannibal's jealousy suddenly flared. He should have killed Lancelot when he had the chance. And eaten him. Leading King Arthur to his death was one thing, but laying a hand on his woman, how rude!

— 'Yeah, it was complicated enough not to dwell and such trivialities. I hope Gal… Will finds them detailed enough.'

Regaining his composure – as if anyone kissing HIS woman could be trivial – Hannibal gestured aside to indicate a road.

— 'Left turn here, little fairy.'

And nothing more was said about Lancelot and his horrible ways.

Frances' reaction to his beach house was priceless, her jaw nearly agape as she took in the view. The Ocean crashed in angry waves on the cliff side just below the terrace, and despite the cold wind it took her ages to realise that he had opened the front door and unloaded the suitcases. When he led her inside, holding her hand like a gentleman, the twinkle in her eyes only intensified.

In the main room surrounded by floor length windows stood a huge Christmas tree decorated from head to toe in red and golden hues. The Nordmann pine itself was magnificent, green needles vibrant as it stood a foot over their heads, but the decoration … the decoration was a work of art. So elegant, so fine even if the smallest of details. Glass baubles of deep red, green and blue delicately drawn with golden threads, wooden stars and shiny tinsel changing with the light populated the thick branches. A few feet away, a grand piano awaited for Hannibal's fingers to enchant her.

The magic of it all nearly brought tears to her eyes, and Frances turned to him in awe. When did he get the time to prepare such a surprise? His lopsided smile called a grin to her lips and she kissed him thoroughly. When she eventually pulled away, leaving them both a little breathless, Hannibal's twinkling eyes caught hers.

— 'May I introduce you to the master bedroom, my lady?'

It didn't take long for her strange mood to evaporate. Talking about one's death didn't hold a candle to being worshipped by a man of Hannibal's talent.


	21. Chapter 21 - Piano piano

**_Hey. I would strongly recommend to listen to the pieces that are described further down if you want to get into the mood. This is an artistic moment shared between Frances and Hannibal, and really need the scenery to go with it. So, 'Divenire' by Ludovico Einaudi, then Chopin, then 'Nuvole Bianche' by Einaudi again._**

**_So people might think that dancing like this is difficult. It is honestly not when you know how to fight, and have nothing else to do of your days than train your body. And when it comes to 'portés', it mostly depends on the guys. There's not much to do for a woman else than keep your body rigid. It's rather easy, with the right partner. Believe me, I've been tossed around a few times, on and off the ice, so I speak from experience: p As for Hannibal, he had a very strict training when it comes to the art of dancing so I guess he could pull it off._**

**_I got a few new favourites and follows. Thank you for that. A review from any of your, new readers, would make my day !_**

Food was ready except for the latest touches, the table not yet set for the evening for a very good reason – the third set must remain hidden at all costs. Hannibal had decided to call it a day and got dressed for Christmas Eve. Of course, he had no doubt that Frances would enjoy the surprise he had prepared for her – nothing gruesome, of course – but until then, he would avoid to set the table and find a way to keep her mind occupied.

Sitting down at the pianoforte, Hannibal allowed his fingers to roam the keyboard to assess the accuracy of his instrument. Perfect, of course, since it was checked by a professional every year. It had been years since he played some Ludovico Einaudi piece, but his memory never faltered. The first notes of 'Divenire' echoed in the cathedral living room, the sound of the piano much better suited for its slow rhythm than the harpsichord. Hannibal started slowly, because the rhythm of the song was such, but also to recall the right placement of his fingers on this piece. It didn't take long for Frances to show, the top of her hair bound into intricate tresses, a long, flowing skirt showing off the laced bodice she wore underneath. From his seat, Hannibal had a perfect view over his soon to be wife, yet the keys called to him to continue playing, no matter what.

Her silent steps told him she didn't wear shoes yet; he had probably coaxed her out with his playing. Hannibal greeted her with a mischievous smile, his attention returning to the piano as she approached him, her expression awed.

She didn't say a thing, but he could sense her fondness for his choice. Her gratitude, to play a part he considered beneath his level of proficiency. She approached the piano slowly, letting her fingers graze the instrument until she settled beside him on the bench. She wore no perfume, as usual, but her make-up held the slightest of unusual scent. As he played, Hannibal risked a glance at her face, noticing how her eyeshadow was brighter than usual, the eyeliner framing her lovely eyes with more strength, her eyelashes extended by the mascara. Her plump lips, though, remained free of any adornment: just the way he preferred it. Any lipstick would suffer his assaults anyway.

The music started to pick up, asking for more concentration as the rhythm increased, both left and right hand playing a different tune, both attuned to each other to create a melody of hope, free of bonds. 'Divenire,' to become, in Italian. Frances closed her eyes, her body angling towards his, yet kept at bay by the movement of his right hand.

— 'Dance, my beautiful,' he told her.

And despite her misgivings that she was no ballerina, Frances obliged, because she couldn't resist the call of her heart. Her body longed to be free, to express those emotions so often repressed, to dance her life rather than to fight. And Hannibal wouldn't see her, right, since the piano faced the stairs rather than the wide living area?

And so Frances danced. At first, very shyly, to warm up, a few steps here, a few turns there, her body remembering how it would feel to be on the ice. The wooden floor was perfect for her tights, allowing her to skid and turn without any effort. A little slippery as well, but for a figure skater, it was deemed safe enough. And so, as Hannibal's fingers enchanted her on the pianoforte, Frances started putting together her classical routines and skating figures, arm gracefully rising to follow her steps. Twists, turns, pirouettes and arabesques coming naturally as she forgot all structure, her body adapting to the music, following its ascents and descents while the rhythm broke as often as it picked up.

And unbeknownst to her, Hannibal watched her dancing in the reflection of the perfectly polished piano, playing flawlessly while his eyes lingered on the free spirit that roamed his living room, skirts flowing around her like a flower in bloom. There was so much passion, overwhelming feelings oozing out of her, crushing the rigid technique away. It should have looked rather stupid, all those liberties, but she was a graceful woman. A powerful, graceful and flexible woman. Not so tall, but with her delicate fingers and long legs, her silhouette looked almost ethereal. A little fairy, dancing her worries away.

The rhythm of 'Divenire' carried them both away. His fingers seemed to follow the music rather than producing it, and Frances turned, and turned. A pirouette here, and another, then she left her leg free as her head shifted back, the movement barely controlled by her leading foot. And the notes rolled down, and she started the pattern anew, her dance so alike to a skater's pirouette, picking up speed, and again, and again, synchronised with his fingers, until she gracefully allowed her body to stop spinning. He wondered, for a brief moment as the music died, how she could sustain such a movement without being dizzy. Figure skating was a different technique than classical dancing; there was no fixed point on the horizon to keep your balance. The body adapted, probably, just like Frances had adapted to her new life by his side.

Hannibal finished the song without difficulty, dragging on the last notes with satisfaction. Albeit it had been a long time, Einaudi's pieces were mostly major assortments and easy rhythms, a good exercise for his hands, but that didn't satisfy his gourmet brain. The equivalence of children's exercise to him. But Frances loved it for its naivety and joy; she needed something that spoke to her heart, while he needed something that spoke to his brain. As the young woman joined him anew on the bench, her cheeks flushed and chest heaving, Hannibal kissed the corner of her mouth before starting something altogether entirely different.

Chopin, nocturnes, number 9.

Frances' head lolled beside him; she knew the piece for it quite often played in his home. The tempo, slow enough for him to slide a glance to her, was uneven. A much better exercise, a more subtle composition for a connoisseur.

— 'Chopin?'

Hannibal only nodded and Frances watched his fingers dance on the piano, mesmerised by the easiness with which he jumped from chord to melody, as if it held no difficulty at all. But she knew how difficult Chopin was to the brain, and coordination.

— 'Less feeling, more technique, still beautiful,' she said.

Hannibal marked a pause then, his left fingers idly tracing the keys, pushing just a few to keep the continuity of the sound as his gaze bore holes into her.

— 'Won't you dance that one too?'

— 'I feel like I should be a prima ballerina to render it justice.'

— 'Don't let the technique intimidate you, mind your body, extend every muscle to its limit. You need to get out of your zone of comfort.'

And Hannibal started playing anew, knowing that it would take a few minutes for Frances to gather the wits to try what he had pushed her to do. She loved dancing on a whim, without structure because it allowed her to bypass judgement. But she always feared to be lacking; if she didn't thrive for technical perfection, there was no failure. Yet, Hannibal knew she had the ability to push her body and mind further. It was all a matter of surpassing her discomfort and dare … dare trying, in front of him, whom she knew would judge harshly.

The nocturnes No. 9 rolled below the tips of his finger, and still Frances frowned by his side. The psychiatrist pretended to be oblivious to the rest of the world as he played happily, releasing the pressure upon his young companion. And for a while, neither said a word as he caressed the piano keys, and she watched him.

Then, she fidgeted imperceptibly. Hannibal's lips barely curled; he refrained it at once. He couldn't let her see. And when, at last, she stood, walking slowly to the living room, Hannibal still pretended. One step, two steps. She walked, the tips of her toes landing on the floor whenever his fingers touched the keys. Then a leg lifted, high, so high that her foot passed her head. Attitude. Then she opened to the side to finish in an arabesque that she extended close to a split. Hannibal smiled. There, she was researching control, pushing her muscles to their limits, and it was beautiful.

Frances danced again, slowly this time, matching the strange mood of the nocturne as she tried more daring moves. More control, more technique … and she awfully realised how lacking she was. Of course, she was. So she concentrated, and thrived to do better, to keep her balance properly, to slow her moves.

As the music quieted, the end approaching, she settled a hand over the piano and bent backwards, her back arching until her extended arm could touch Hannibal's cheek. Upside down, she smiled at him. He responded in kind, finishing the piece with a little theatrics before his hands settled in his lap. Frances joined him anew, her hand fishing his cheek to turn his head back to her. She didn't speak, choosing instead to taste his lips with slow, deliberate kisses that caressed them artfully. The perfect example of what her body had just performed a moment before. Hannibal reached for her face, relishing in the softness of her skin where only a touch of make-up enlightened her lovely features.

Then he grabbed her neck forcefully, and he pulled her flush against him as his tongue suddenly plunged into her mouth. Frances moaned as the kiss deepened, her hands reaching for his waist to keep upright and he felt her fight for control. Hannibal pulled back, a smirk upon his face at seeing the dazed look she addressed him.

— 'You have done well, my beautiful. Now let us have a little passion.'

Hannibal stood then, bestowing another kiss to her forehead before he strode to a corner of the room. Frances watched his elegant silhouette – his jacket discarded on the piano, he only wore his waistcoat and shirt – as he fiddled with the sound system until the first chords of 'Nuvole Bianche' echoed in the living room.

Frances gasped, a happy smile splitting her face. Her eyes closed a moment, relishing in the deep, echoing sound of the grand piano through the sound system of Hannibal's living room. There was nothing like it, really. Its deep notes washed through her body like a river through the land. Her head was dancing, her lips set into a smile because she knew what was coming. For the moment, notes only danced in the air, slowly, one by one in a gentle melody. But soon, the full beauty of the piece would be unleashed and hit her like a tidal wave. When the rhythm changed, the tempo increasing, tears formed into her eyes. How she loved that piece! How she loved that man!

— 'Dance, my beautiful. Dance for me'

His voice was so close, and Frances didn't even need to open her eyes to know he hoovered over her. His command, though, was all she needed to unleash the emotions that stirred inside of her.

The young woman sprang from the bench, running to the living area, her feet barely touching the ground such was the strength of the music that carried her steps. She jumped then, her legs extending to either side in a near-split, warm from her earlier exercise. The grand-jeté. The rest was a blur as she turned in attitude pirouettes and fouettés, changing direction at every turn, her arms greeting the magnificence of the music. Her heart soared in happiness, her chest expanding, euphoria running through her veins like a drug as she danced her joy with abandon. Legs lifted, arms followed, her body twisting around until the song quieted.

Frances stilled, one of her arms extended gracefully above her head. Her eyes travelled to Hannibal; he stood there, unmoving, as the piano notes washed over them like a blanket of comfort, his gaze … almost proud? And as 'Nuvole bianche' continued its course, Frances watched, fascinated, Hannibal untie his elaborate blueish cravat. The notes seemed to roll under his feet as he approached her, taking advantage of the slowness of the melody to take his time. His shoes did not make a sound on the wooden floor as he closed the distance between them, ever the predator.

Then he extended a hand to her, and she obliged. Her skin tingled as he pulled her closer and captured her lips in a slow, sensual kiss. Then his smooth voice whispered in her ear.

— 'Now a little more passion.'

And as the music picked up anew, Hannibal lifted their entwined hand, and put the other on her waist.

— 'May I have this dance, my beautiful?'

Frances addressed him a smile so wide that he couldn't help responding. And then, his whole body started to waltz and she had no choice but to twirl around with him. Hannibal was a smooth dancer, but not only. He also was a good leader, strong and determined so that following him came naturally. 1, 2, 3 … 1, 2, 3… Waltzing was easy enough; her grandfather had taught her the steps on a beach in south of Spain. And when the tempo picked up, Hannibal added an extra measure of swiftness to their movement. Soon, their steps were perfectly synchronised, the psychiatrist started to deviate from the original waltzing as he twirled her under his arm once, twice, then caught her back and changed direction just as smoothly. Frances started, by his firm hand on her waist and the tug of his other hand didn't give room for fumbling. She was now turning backwards, and so was he, but he still led her. Amazed at this break of structure, Frances addressed him a smile. From his upper position – 6 feet tall and shoes on – Hannibal responded in kind.

On and on they danced, Frances obliging to his every whim as he mingled other dances in the waltz. It felt so good, to follow him to the end of the world and twirl to the music, guided by his will. His intense eyes didn't leave her, the golden twinkle more present than ever, amazed at how easily she moulded to his commands. Hannibal had no doubt, now, about how deadly they could both be on a battlefield such was the strength of their connection. His hands directed her left and right, leaving her, gathering her close, then pushing her further away. One moment, he was waltzing, her little hand enclosed upon his chest, a second later they danced around without any contact except from hungry eyes, circling each other as in a quadrille.

As a waterfall of piano notes descended in the living room, Hannibal eventually unleashed the athlete that he was and grabbed Frances around the waist for a lift. Surprised, at first, that her feet were not touching the ground anymore, she eventually settled her hands upon his shoulders and spread her legs in a semi-split. Her skirt flowed around them, the material brushing his face as her long hair danced in kind. Thrilled, Hannibal shifted his hold, grabbing her front leg to brace it around his shoulder, and on and on they turned, both lost in the ecstasy of the music, muscles burning. When Frances' stance showed signs of weakness, Hannibal shifted her weight downwards until both her legs encased his arm, her head facing the ground before he eventually put her back on her feet, resuming the waltz as if nothing had happened.

The smug smile on his face, though, only matched her inner glow as she watched him, cheeks ablaze, panting from the exertion. And when the music eventually quietened, Frances threw her arms around him.

— 'It was amazing!'

Hannibal nodded, proud, before capturing her lips in a sensual kiss far too short for his liking, but he needed to breathe. When his eyes opened, though, a movement outside caught his attention. Hannibal's lips quirked up, and he murmured in Frances' ear.

— 'We're being watched.'

Will tensed when Frances' head shot up, her body alert. Then her eyes searched the terrasse, and spotted him. Will send her a lopsided smile, one that said 'sorry' just as much as 'hey, fancy seeing you there!'. Too bad, he had been having such a great time sitting outside. Granted, his fingers were numb now, he couldn't even type anything on his phone to respond to Alana's latest text. But it was a good spot. Way down, the Ocean crashed angrily on the cliff side, making its own music of nature. A powerful reminder of their condition in life. And thus, the music that filtered through Hannibal's impressive glass doors only enhanced the cyclic noise of the waves.

Despite the cold, Will found that he enjoyed the view and the strength of the elements. He had planned on giving a call to Alana before ringing the doorbell when he spotted Frances dancing in the living room. Needless to say, that he had been struck speechless by her performance. It shouldn't have surprised him, after all; she was a fencer, and figure skater. Still, it was mesmerising to watch her body bend and twist, responding to Hannibal's fingers on the piano. What came next, then, was even more impressive. And as Hannibal and Frances' bodies twirled around, moulding around each other until he picked her up as if she weighed nothing, Will realised how fit the psychiatrist was. Together, they were … otherwordly. As attuned to each other as on the battlefield.

They deserved this happiness, after so many years apart, after so much heartache. He just hoped that he and Alana could get to this level of connection one day. But even then, he knew he would never express it like this. They were so out of his league when it came to artistic expression. Once, he had seen Hannibal's pictures and could not fathom how such a cold exterior could produce such chef d'oeuvre. But seeing the way he danced, and the way Frances seemed to be hugging the life out of him right now, perhaps he was wrong on his assessment. Perhaps Hannibal Lecter wasn't the cold man he showed to the world.

The noise of the glass door sliding on its rail called his attention again; Frances and Hannibal stood, winded, ready to welcome him into their home. Will felt honoured to be here, with them, on Christmas Eve. Perhaps next year, Alana would come with. If he won her over the right way, she might very well be.

One man could dream, right?


	22. Chapter 22 - The gift of knowledge

_**Hello my darlings. I have been busy with other stuff for a while, but Hannibal was tapping at my door to write another chapter so there it is. I hope you'll enjoy it, even if it is fairly domestic. It is especially dedicated to chocolate, and food in general. Cheers.**_

Stunned, Frances turned to Hannibal with a bewildered expression.

— "You invited Will, here?"

After all, she'd never heard of his beach house; it could have been an efficient hideout in case things went awry.

— "Yes. I thought you would enjoy spending Christmas Eve with your family."

Tears wells in her eyes, and she tightened her hold on Hannibal with a happy sigh.

— "Thank you, my darling. It means a lot to me."

— "Christmas is about spending time with people you love…"

Pulling back, Frances watched her man's guarded eyes. People you love. There was a double meaning here. The psychiatrist lifted a hand, his finger massaging the spot between her eyes.

— "I see from the crease between your eyes that you ponder whether to talk, or not."

The young woman bit her lip; trust Hannibal to catch her hesitation. Still … she didn't know if broaching such subject was wise; breaking the mood would be heresy. But she never lied to Hannibal; it was bad enough she had to lie to everyone else.

— "I don't know if I should tell you"

— "Humour me", was his impassive response.

Frances sighed.

— "Very well. I am surprised because … well … for a while, I thought you were jealous of Will."

It was a stupid notion, and she expected Hannibal to scold her for her childish fantasies. Especially since … well, he didn't love her, did he? But when his eyebrows knitted together instead, she knew her intuition had once more aimed true. Hannibal's lips pursed slightly.

— "How on earth did you pick up on that?", he asked, his eyes serious.

This was the boldest, most surprised exclamation she had ever heard him utter.

— "Your eyes never lie to me, Hannibal. They conceal, sometimes. But they don't lie"

— "You are a good reader", he said.

Then his tongue darted above his lower lip, his gaze turning to Will for an instant before he smiled.

— "There. Laid bare by a woman twenty years my junior. You will never cease to amaze me, my beautiful."

— "Hannibal…"

The psychiatrist cocked his head aside, as was his wont when he was observing… assessing. Calculating. Frances watched, fascinated, his detachment to such a sore subject. Plunging her deep gaze into his, she grabbed both of his hands.

— "I love you. No one else. I loved you, lost you, and found you again. I am not interested in Will, not interested in the 3.5 billion men in the world. You are my one. Period"

The tall man caressed her knuckles gently, giving her a fond smile that melted her insides.

— "I am glad, dearest. Dismiss my concerns, they are those of an old man. And now, let us great our guest."

It took all her willpower to let this go; she knew the problem wasn't only about his age and fitness, but rather about his cannibalistic tendencies. But there wasn't much she could do about it. If, someday, she walked away from him, they both knew the reason. Hence the needed change of subject.

— "I understand the fish and Chablis now"

— "Yes. You are both pescatarian."

Frances took a deep breath, trying to chase the fears away. He was so thoughtful that she sometimes forgot, for a split of a second, that he also was a killer. To her, though, he played the part of a devoted husband and she loved him all the more. Her hand caressed his cheekbone, the memory of tattooed arrows lingering before she whispered.

— "Hannibal … thank you, for everything."

— "Nothing is too good for you, my beautiful. But I still have a few surprises up my sleeve, don't rest on your laurels."

The young woman raised her eyebrows playfully. For now, though, she needed to welcome Will into the house.

Dinner was a great moment when Hannibal could once more display his level of skill in the kitchen without any issues regarding meat provenance. Frances let herself be lulled by the flames of the fireplace, the lights from the Christmas tree and the voices of her two favourite people in the world: her husband and her brother in arms. The Chablis had been delicious, of course, and matched the fish dish so perfectly.

But despite the relaxed atmosphere, there was always a part of her watching her words. This was her life now, protecting the interests of a killer. Lying to everyone but him. Fortunately, Will didn't bring the Chesapeake ripper on the table tonight. And as they huddled on the sofa, Frances folding her legs inside the skirt, the empath even dared speaking of his fondness for Alana. Realising how deep Will's feelings were, and judging the lack of reaction from Hannibal – he already knew – Frances nearly bolted out of her seat.

— "Wow, why didn't I know that before?"

Will send her a sheepish smile. Funny, how after a few drinks he was able to relax enough to sustain her gaze.

— "I didn't want to burden you with sappy stuff."

— "Damnit Will, we're friends!" she exclaimed while swatting his arm.

Hannibal smirked then, sending a sly look to his future wife.

— "Now, now, dear, there is no need for violence."

Coming from him, this was a rather loaded statement. But rather than taking the bait, Frances expressed her indignation.

— "You bet there is!"

She took a mock deep breath, and shook Will's sleeve vehemently.

— "You listen to my ramblings, I listen to yours, right?"

— "Being the Keeper of Time is hardly ramblings, Frances."

— "I'm not … not anymore. Anyway. Your feelings about a woman, especially that woman, are important. Please speak to me Will, only for the sake of making me think about merry things."

The empath nodded, and Hannibal's eyes twinkled. She had him there, with only a slight manipulation to appeal to his heart. Smart woman.

— "Anyway, talking about Keeper of Time's business… I think it's time for presents."

— "Is it, my beautiful?"

The psychiatrist stood from his armchair, a shadow looming in the living room where lights had been dimmed at the minimum to preserve the spirit. He offered a hand to Frances, then gestured to Will to join them. The three of them walked to the Christmas tree, and the young woman suddenly felt self-conscious. After her genius idea of present for Hannibal's birthday, she had fallen out of inspiration this time. Most of her time had been dedicated to Will's, leaving her with only a small token of affection for Hannibal – an embroidered handkerchief. Well. Better next time.

Before presents were handed, Hannibal tugged on her hand.

— "Will you sing, my beautiful? One of those songs you graced us with in the fifth century?"

Frances froze. The three of them stood there, side by side, like a family in front of the Christmas tree. A notion that, fifteen hundred years ago, had not even existed.

And if the wind howled tonight, they were lucky, this time, not to be at the mercy of the icy weather. Still … it reminded her of this Ave Maria she had sung in a snow-covered forest. No, too difficult. She had not practised for a while, and wasn't in the mood. But another song might fit the mould. Nodding, the closed her eyes, and started singing, trying to channel Looreena Mc kennitt the best she could.

"_God rest ye merry, gentlemen_

_Let nothing you dismay_

_for Jesus Christ our Saviour_

_Was born on Christmas Day_

Neat, her voice was clear enough to reach those notes without issues. The rest would go easily then.

_"__To save us all from Satan's power_

_When we were gone astray_

_O tidings of comfort and joy,_

_Comfort and joy_

_O tidings of comfort and joy"_

Both men were silent, Hannibal's eyes closed as she sang, drinking in the clarity of her voice – hell, she was a soprano after all. So she went on.

_"__From God our Heavenly Father_

_A blessed Angel came;_

_And unto certain Shepherds_

_Brought tidings of the same:_

_How that in Bethlehem was born_

_The Son of God by Name."_

_O tidings of comfort and joy,_

_Comfort and joy_

_O tidings of comfort and joy."_

Hannibal squeezed her hand then kissed her cheek.

— "Thank you, my beautiful. I can never have enough of your voice."

Frances blushed, her eyes dipping to contemplate her shoes when Will interrupted her musings.

— "I remember it. We were riding, all together."

It was amazing how Will recovered memories so easily. Probably the gift of empathy that allowed him to pick up on the souvenirs of his soul. Frances nodded.

— "Yes. It was one of the first days, before that blasted Bishop came about and … ugh! Horrid man. Anyway. Can we maul the tree now, husband?"

Hannibal's eyes twinkled in mirth, amused by her wording. By her liveliness who brought so much into his lonely life.

— "Do what you will, children," he teased.

— "Hush, you. It's not because you are all level-headed that you have to spoil our fun."

And Will marvelled that such a young woman could speak thus to the eminent psychiatrist, and never get scolded for it. His expression seemed rather amused as he knelt by the tree, and pushed a little box in her hands. By her side, Will had found the book they had pulled together, Frances' writing and Hannibal's drawings, all printed and bound with a leather cover. A quick peek told her the empath was already engrossed in the reading, heading to another era.

So Frances returned to box, her gaze curious. Of course, Hannibal didn't let anything show and she tore the paper away, revealing a sober jewellery box. Opening the lid, she found a set of twin rings of great quality in both white and pinkish gold. The smallest one held three little diamonds, while the biggest one was polished. Frances' eyebrows creased in confusion, and Hannibal chuckled.

— "See what it reads."

She picked the smallest one up – the one she assumed was for her – and turned it around. The lighting wasn't adequate, though, and she stood to bring it under the kitchen light a few meters away. Hannibal was by her side instantly, his tall frame hoovering over her shoulder. Inside the ring were carved those words in neat letters:

_Frances & Hannibal, 476 AD_

Her breath itched, and suddenly, she was nose to nose with the man she had claimed as her own. His low, seductive voice caressed her ear and she closed her eyes to prevent the tears from falling.

— "We've considered ourselves husband and wife for a while now. I think it is time we carve it in stone."

Frances bit her lip, giving up the pretence as a droplet fell from her eyelashes. Hannibal caressed her cheek, wiping the moist away with his thumb.

— "Yes," she whispered.

He kissed her plump lips gently.

— "I have an appointment at the courthouse on the 24th of January. Does that suit you?"

— "Yes"

And, discarding the rings on the kitchen table, she buried her face into his neck, her arms tightening around his chest. Tears flowed freely, sadness and joy to, at last, cheat death and finally be married. After a while, Hannibal pulled away slightly, lifting her chin to give her a chaste kiss.

— "I was hoping to see you smile, my beautiful."

— "I am, I will… I mean. It is overwhelming to be able to marry you. But I am happy. Thank you, Hannibal"

His hands cupped both her cheeks, trapping her in his intense gaze. Frances' stomach churned as she watched him, mesmerised by the intensity she read in his eyes. For once, the barriers had fallen, and she contemplated the relief of being accepted in their depth. The relief of being loved, even if he considered himself just as bad as Tristan used to. A monster to some.

— "It is I, who thank you, for not giving up on me"

Staring in those orbs, she saw both men at the same time. The cold Hannibal today, the wild Tristan of the past with his mane of dark hair and braids.

— "Always, Hannibal."

Nodding, he brought her to his lips once more, and for a moment there was only the warmth of his body, the softness of his tongue and the strength of his arms around her. Before she could loose herself in the kiss and start shedding control, Frances bounced back to the living room. Will barely lifted his head from the book when she announced the good news.

— "24th of January, at the courthouse. You'll be here ?"

— "Uh? Oh, right, good. Yes, sure."

And if Frances might have been crossed with anyone else for such a lack of reaction, she understood for Will was sitting, speechless, on front of the picture Hannibal had drawn of him. Frances sat beside him on the floor.

— "Amazing, uh?"

The young man caressed the paper in disbelief.

— "Yeah. It is incredible. Did I really look like this?"

— "Yeah. To the last hair on your beard. He's so talented. Too bad I can't have a drawing of himself."

Speaking of the devil. Hannibal appeared with a tray of camomile for the night, and Frances send him a fond look.

— "Can't you do an autoportrait?" Will asked.

Hannibal pursed his lips, resuming his seat in the armchair with Frances' wrapped present in his lap.

— "I didn't get to see my face much at the time. Mirrors were scarce, as you probably know."

— "And he's afraid to draw himself with a wild mane, braids and a beard," Frances quipped.

The psychiatrist mock glared at her.

— "Wife…"

— "I'm not sorry for the beard, it tickles less", she started playfully.

But Will ignored the banter entirely; he was too engrossed in his idea to notice.

— "No, I mean. You said he looked very much alike, with more or less fifteen years difference."

— "I assure you, the age is subjective," Frances said. Then turning to Hannibal "You don't look a year older."

— "Then you could draw yourself, right? And add the rest, clothing and beard by Frances' instructions."

William's eyes were full of hope, and Frances' wondered at the motivations behind this request. Why was it so important for him to get a picture of the last knight? Unfortunately, Hannibal didn't seem disposed to grant his wish.

— "I fear I cannot render the likeness of my past self."

— "But …?"

Frances landed a hand on Will's arm; something was bothering Hannibal, but he was too polite to say so. She wondered, sometimes, if he was still struggling with acceptance. Since most of his memories were suppressed, perhaps he had trouble reconciling with this piece of him. The wildness of Tristan, without any boundaries, might send his mind reel. After all, the knight of old had had licence to kill on behalf of Arthur; there were no laws to prevent him for spending his bloodlust on poor Picts or bandits. There, today, Hannibal was bound by law and morality… and her wishes. So she ought to give him a little support.

— "It will never be the same, Will. There are too many details, I don't think I could spot half of what he called forth to draw you."

The empath sighed, getting back to his reading.

— "Yeah, maybe you're right. Anyway. Thank you both, this is amazing. I'll have to find a place where Alana doesn't find it, she's already quite antsy as it is."

Frances frowned then, exchanging a wary look to the psychiatrist.

— "About what?"

— "About us three. She knows I'm hiding something, especially after that little stunt you pulled in Jack's office, Hannibal."

The two men shared a loaded look, the reminiscence of a confrontation where the psychiatrist had shown teeth, and Will backed him up. Frances' eyebrows lifted in surprise, and she almost missed Will's next words directed to her.

— "And I've been stupid, I've put your name under 'Timy'. Of course she had to ask about the nickname."

Frances sniggered then.

— "Timy, that's a good one."

— "I see nothing gets past Alana," Hannibal's smooth voice sounded.

Frances nearly scoffed; nothing except that her mentor was a serial killer who cannibalised his victims…

— "I wish you had not been such a good teacher," Will mumbled.

— "If you wish to get involved with Alana, you will have to get used to her insightfulness."

Hannibal's neutral warning sent Will into a sea of musings. Was he ready for a relationship, really? Frances watched the interaction with interest; she had no doubt she was taking a peek at the dynamic of their private sessions. Hannibal caught her gaze then, and she decided to reach for him. The tall man grabbed her hand and pulled her into his lap. Thus was restored the balance in the room as Will returned to the book.

It was a quiet morning. Snow had stopped overnight, but the thick coat still caught the sun like a thousand little mirrors. With the sea crashing underneath, Frances had found her paradise. She found Hannibal in the kitchen, of course. Adorned with the traditional apron over a very plain shirt – wow! –he was preparing a breakfast fit for a king. The eggs were untouched; she suspected him to wait for her to perform his egg trick. She loved that one.

Without lifting his head from the stirring, he greeted her.

— "Good morning, my beautiful"

Of course, he'd sensed her presence. Ever the predator; couldn't let her surprise him. She doubted she would be able to, ever. Frances trod to her man, her hand landing at his nape as she kissed his cheek. Her lips lingered for a moment, then slid to his jaw for another sensual kiss. His hands stilled, waiting, until Frances squeezed his forearm and went to prepare their morning tea. Then he resumed his cooking.

They both worked in companionable silence for a while, he perfecting the batter for pancakes and she rinsing and brewing the tea. A Christmas special edition, her favourite. Then, once tea was ready, Frances watched as Hannibal flipped the pancakes around. Each time he marked a pause before the sizzling saucepan, she extended the cup for him to take a sip of the fresh brew. His sensual lips moulded around the steaming cup, and she marvelled that he accepted it.

Hannibal's conventions had conventions. Rules, etiquette, manners. Everything in his life had always stuck to the teachings of his late parents; he was born a noble after all. But here, with Frances, he accepted the breach of etiquette for the symbol it represented. Everything that was hers, was his, and vice versa. By sharing their cup of tea, she conveyed her love and willingness to mingle with him. Much more than offering her body in a fit of passion. It was a token of their shared life, their shared interests.

When Will's foot hit the first step of the stairs, both of them tensed. Waiting. The soft tap tap, confirming their friend's descent, forced them to relax. Neither wanted him to realise how aware Hannibal was.

Will popped up in the kitchen, finding a domestic scene with a very relaxed atmosphere. He would never doubt the predator that cooked behind the counter. His eyes were slightly red, and he looked a little worse for wear as Hannibal greeted him.

— "Good morning Will. Did you sleep well?"

— "Ah, yes. Just… not enough"

— "Nightmares ?"

Frances noted as Hannibal was careful not to say 'again' in front of her – preserving patient's privacy. But she knew better. This time, though, it wasn't the dreams that had kept Will awake.

— "No. I just couldn't stop reading our story. You've done an amazing job recounting it, Frances"

The young woman smiled shyly.

— "Thanks"

— "The details are so incredible, and I could almost feel the snow on my face. I just remember so much stuff now"

The empath settled beside Frances on a bar stool, munching on a chocolate bar. Seeing her curious look, he offered a piece of the treat.

— "Hershey?"

Hannibal smirked; he knew what was coming. Even from here, he could smell the horrible stench of butyric acid that characterised this recipe. He'd been told it was an acquired taste, but being European, he just couldn't stand it. So he counted to three in his head … but Frances burst before that.

— "Eeeeeew ! Why does it smell like vomit? Eeeww, how can you eat that?"

Eyes twinkling, Hannibal turned around, watching as Frances' nose scrunched in disgust and she batted the offending piece of chocolate away. Will popped the piece into his mouth, giving a smug smile at her disgruntled face.

— "You are both insufferable, but I understand why you are together."

Hannibal butted in then, skirting around the counter to slide a hand around Frances' waist, looking at his future wife.

— "Yes, keen sense of smell, shared memory, and good taste."

— "What else?" Frances added.

— "Certainly not coffee," Will grumbled.

Hannibal squeezed Frances' waist once more, then turned to their friend.

— "Let me fix that for you," he offered.

But Frances beat him to it.

— "No, I'll do it. Sorry Will, this stuff just … yuck."

The young woman shuddered then, eyeing the eggs that still stood over the counter. A sly smile quirked her lips up.

— "Are you ready for the omelette, darling?"

— "Yes. Let us have breakfast"

And while she prepared coffee for Will, Frances watched, mesmerised, as Hannibal threw the egg in the air. It landed on the spatula, breaking neatly, its content landing in the bowl. Will's eyebrows rose at the display, and he squinted, waiting to see if the second egg would behave just as nicely. Of course, it did. And the 3rd, 4th, 5th and 6th just as well.

— "I never get tired of that egg trick," Frances beamed.


	23. Chapter 23 - The witness

1\. The witness

When Hannibal passed the threshold, the music that graced his ears caused him to mark a pause. He ever listened to 'pop' music, but had to admit that Frances' choices were acceptable; she fortunately didn't enjoy the horrible brew they served on the radio frequencies, except for the classic channel of course. This particular one he had heard before, for his aunt loved James Blunt. The merry tune of 'Bonfire heart' sounded in the living room where his little lady was once more wielding a needle. Mending, or embroidering. Perhaps finishing a hem, who knew?

Her head lifted when she saw him; her eyes were shielded, but the sadness seeped through. Was it the joy of the music that touched her so? The fact that, despite his best efforts, he still was a sociopath and unable to really love? How long until she realised that she wasn't happy? That she deserved more? Another life, with a man whose heart shone light rather than darkness? How long would he be able to stretch things? To repress his own urges?

Sighing internally, the psychiatrist plucked the remote from Frances hands before she could switch the music off. Her surprise brought him the answer he sook; he still had a few tricks up his sleeve that might very well change the dynamic. He just needed to step out of his zone of comfort, and find ways to make her laugh. Yes, his little lady needed to laugh more, to be the carefree young woman she had never been. To leave behind the Keeper of Time, and enjoy life.

A pull to her wrist brought her to her feet, and he circled her back to pull her into a waltz. Frances smiled then, an expression that reached her eyes and warmed both of their hearts. And while James Blunt sung of his bonfire heart, Hannibal led his future wife through the house in a merry round that left her breathless and radiating happiness. And once the song was over, he turned the device off and picked her up, dragging her to the master bedroom, shedding her clothes one by one, covering her beautiful body with kisses.

He was always careful not to be forceful in bed, to let her take over whenever she wanted to. Most of the time, she was just happy to keep him in the lead. Akin to the waltz, akin to their life, Hannibal was in control. He made love to her very slowly, worshipping her like the gift she was in his life. And despite her pleas that he increased the pace, her refused her, resisting with all his might to turn into the animal that sometimes broke his bonds. Not that she didn't appreciate it – Frances wasn't afraid of the beast within. But today was another exercise entirely. A sweet, sweet torture to them both that brought her to a mighty peak. And when her walls clenched around him, her body tightening around his frame with tremendous strength, Hannibal went over the edge.

The feelings of his seed gracing her insides caused him to groan softly, his hips burying deeper and deeper until he fell above her, content. She kept him close, her legs wrapped about him as she tried to regain her breathing. Hannibal's mind drifted to the impossibility of a child. How beautiful she would look, her womb filled with his baby. And despite the fact that they agreed not to allow children to be born from their union – for obvious reasons – Hannibal couldn't push away the longing to see a bump on her slender form. The present to his lineage, his essence to the world.

At last, he forced himself away from the fantasy and untangled his limbs from Frances', settling beside her. His hand came to rest upon her chest, lifting and falling with her breathing. The young woman watched him, silent, her eyes contemplating the lines of his face. What did she see? An old man? A reminiscence of her silent knight? A stern, broken soul?

— "You are beautiful," she whispered, as if answering his questions.

And Hannibal's heart soared, for of all things, he wasn't expecting this to be her vision. And he was glad not to be alone, for her point of view was so different from his own. It brought a whole new world to his eyes, a set of ideas and structures to dissect and study at his leisure. And soft skin under his touch, affection and intimacy such as he had never experienced.

In fifteen days, she would be his. Mrs Lecter. Passing a tongue over his upper lip, he told her:

— "I have invited Bedelia to dine with us tomorrow. I want you to meet my witness before the wedding."

Frances nodded, her eyes curious about the woman who acted as his psychiatrist. Wondering what kind of person, she would be. He hoped she wouldn't be disappointed. He had no idea how true that statement was.

Jaw agape, Frances watched the blond woman as Hannibal led her to the kitchen.

— "Dana ? Dana Scully ?"

Doctor Du Maurier froze in her tracks, her blue eyes widening at the use of a forgotten name. By her side, Hannibal watched the scene unravel, curious. Eager, even. Frances sent him a shocked look; obviously, her husband to be had no idea what was happening. Was it karma ? The young woman took a sharp breath, wondering how, in all the world, she was facing the woman who had brought her to be the Keeper of Time in the first place. The woman who had been by her side when they discovered the Stargate. A woman whom she had admired, and befriended for years in Interpol. A woman who used to bear a different name.

At last, Dr Du Maurier regained her bearings and spoke.

— "I have not used than name for a very long time. How do you know of it ?"

— "I…"

Frances was stunned, speechless. Seeing her flustered state, Hannibal approached and kissed the side of her head.

— "Perhaps your incredible memory had stored the souvenir of Bedelia. A family gathering, perhaps ?"

Glad for the offer of a master liar, Frances gave her man a grateful glance, then turned to Scul.. no, Bedelia. Ugh, what a weird name.

— "I remember your father. He was in the Navy, right ?"

— "Yes."

Good. The realities were close enough to hold similar people.

— "We probably met at one of the military gatherings, I had an uncle in the army. You were a readhead then, right ?"

That line was a bit far-fetched, but if this Bedelia and Dana had a past in common, it wasn't too delirious to think they might have share their love for rusty hair. The blond woman smiled gently then, remembering better times.

— "Yes, I was. You probably were pretty young then"

— "Probably five or six. But I remember your hair, I found it beautiful"

A discreet blush coloured the woman's cheek and Hannibal squeezed Frances' waist, as if to say 'well done'. Given her own hair colour, Bededia might even conclude that the memory might have pushed her to adopt the same. From a psychiatrist's point of view, it made sense.

— "You have an incredible memory, Frances", she stated.

Her voice lagged, as if she wanted every syllable to last and imprint the mood. It was such a weird contrast with the striking personality of Dana Scully. What had happened to her ? Realising that she was staring, Frances gave Hannibal a fond look.

— "Edeitic, if a little less powerful than his"

— "Yes. I can see why you two get along so well. Then I am glad to see you again, Frances"

Frances' heart lurched painfully. How she would have wished this to be true, to see her friend again. The Dana Scully, not this mock copy. For Bedelia du Maurier was murky woman, afraid of her own shadow. Her voice was low, sensual, affected. The passion was gone from her eyes, the strength that caused Scully to stand up to Mulder tremendously absent. As if she feared to be crushed at any time.

How much of this was due to Hannibal's hold over the woman ? For Frances was no fool. By choosing her to acknowledge his marriage, he was throwing her – his therapist – off his scent. To confuse her so that she saw the human in him, to force her to meet the lovesick fool that he played perfectly this very evening. And If she admired his intelligence, Frances couldn't help but weeping – internally – for the friend she had lost. The more she conversed with Bedelia, the more her heart accepted that Scully would never be alive in this world. Was it a difference in character, or the fact that they had taken different paths ? This change of name could only come from a trauma. Was it the reason Bedelia had chosen psychology rather than being a legist ?

Frances resolved herself to ignore it, for Bedelia was a master at swiping questions aside. Much like Hannibal. Much like her. What strange dinner it was, this reunion of people that weren't friends, where no one could speak plainly and most truths were hidden. How she longed for Will's earnestness. Dessert was about to be served, bringing Hannibal to the kitchen once more when Bedelia fixed her blue gaze upon Frances.

— "So. I haven't heard your side of the story. Tell me how you met Hannibal"

It was a strange thing, to stare in the eyes of a friend only to realise she had turned into a snake. Damn manipulators ! Bedelia was probably trying to assess whether she was a naïve young woman about to fall into an older's man's clutches. But the fact that she waited until her future husband was in the kitchen to ask said questions pissed her off royally.

— "I doubt it will be much different than the other side", she retorted.

Bedelia froze; she didn't expect retaliation on such a polite request. Gulping a mouthful of wine, the blond lady chose to try another angle instead.

— "Everything Hannibal told me if sealed under patient confidentiality. It doesn't taste the same, to hear about a love story outside of the office, without the hassle of mind structures and a professional ear. Humour me"

Frances smirked then, wondering on which merry chase Hannibal sent her whenever he was in session. The poor woman had no clue what she was dealing with; Dr Lecter had been hiding in plain sight for so long, pulling wool over so many people's eyes. But she could see that Bedelia suspected his manipulative ways, hence her questioning.

When in doubt, just stick to the truth. The young woman smiled then, remembering the day she had found Hannibal in his office. Her heart sped up, joy spreading in her limbs; it was such a vivid memory.

— "After my amnesia, I tried to see a psychiatrist to help me recover. This is how I ended in Hannibal's office"

Bedelia hummed, taking another sip of the delicious white Muscadet, waiting for her to continue.

— "As the young say in this country, we hit it off"

— "You did, from the very first session ?"

A loaded question, for she knew that a psychiatrist was forbidden to have a relationship with a patient. It was just a subtle way to prod if Hannibal had been instated as her psychiatrist – in her mind - before they started being lovers.

— "We didn't speak much of my issues, but found out we had common interests. Needless to say there was no second session"

The noises coming from the kitchen had abated; Hannibal was listening. And she could imagine the smirk on his lips right now. Yes, they had certainly not spoken much that day, choosing instead to end up in bed.

— "So, love at first sight then ?"

Bedelia's smoky voice rattled Frances' nerves, especially how her 's' lingered over her tongue. Yet, she graced her with a fake smile.

— "I knew, for the moment I saw him, that he was my one"

Blond eyebrows shot up in disbelief.

— "How so ?"

It was time to give her a glimpse of the truth, without revealing too much. Just enough to stir Bedelia away from her fear that Hannibal manipulated her. And if her husband's psychiatrist couldn't accept in love at first sight, she might bow to mystic beliefs.

— "I am a firm believer in past lives, Dr Du Maurier. We have already met, and I don't intend to let him go. As you probably know, I do rely a lot on instinct"

— "Ah yes. Hannibal told me you saved his life on a hunch"

Grateful that the woman was as intelligent as Scully had been, Frances nailed it.

— "Yes. I know when to trust myself, and when not to. It might seem irrational, but it works for me."

— "Knowing yourself if one of the most important tasks in life", she said, her smile appreciative.

— "Yes. And it is convenient as well to send all those worriers – the people who think Hannibal is taking advantage of me, or the contrary – back to hell. We belong together. Period."

Appearing with a tray of tiramisu cups, Hannibal settled it on the table.

— "And this, my little fairy, I why I love you"

The conclusion was sealed with a fond kiss, and Hannibal took his seat by his future wife's side. Thus were abated Bedelia's fears about Frances. For she could see the strength of character, and her determination. And truth be told, the doctor was rather jealous to see such an unwavering soul when she had trouble facing Hannibal for their weekly session. So much seemed to escape her when it came to him, but Frances seemed to know exactly what kind of man she was about to marry.

— "So, why the change of name ?"

Shocked that Frances would dare delving into her trauma, Bedelia stuttered.

— "I had a difficult experience in the past. It felt better to start afresh"

Hannibal's smirk irradiated with pride. Yes. Despite her youth, she definitely was a match to the old loner that was Dr Lecter.

— "Oh. Well. To new lives then"

And Frances lifted her glass, her chocolate eyes fixed upon Bedelia's blue ones.

— "Did you recover your memory, Frances ?"

— "Yes. It came back, little by little."

— "So you have no use for a psychiatrist anymore ?"

Frances bit her tongue discreetly then. She would need a thousand psycho-analising people to get rid of her PTSD, but none of them would ever be able to hear what she had to say. For the moment, writing her missions and discussing them with Will and Hannibal would have to do. And if Bedelia thought she was going to be her patient, she could shove the toothpick up her…

— "Frances had not emitted the wish to see another, but if she so wishes, nothing stops her from talking to a psychologist, or any other health personnel she might see fit"

Well, that was a diplomatic response. Seeing the battle of wills between the two psychiatrists, Frances quipped in:

— "Getting a husband was a much better bargain. There are things that psychiatrists can't do for your own happiness"

Shedding aside the innuendo, Bedelia answered very seriously.

— "As things than a husband cannot do either"

Frances rolled her eyes; her third glass of wine was starting to lower her mental shields, and she was pissed that Du Maurier had not even laughed at the quip. Dana would have.

— "Bedelia. You have tasted Hannibal's cooking. Nothing can ever beat that"

The blond woman laughed then, along with her hosts. Never in the world would she imagine how far from the truth she was, for Hannibal's cooking was the main subject of disagreement between them.

An hour later, Frances greeted Bedelia du Maurier goodnight with mixed feelings. Watching as Hannibal, like the gentleman he was, accompanied her to her car, she couldn't help but regret her involvement. As they retreated to the kitchen to wash the dishes, Frances asked Hannibal bluntly.

— "Why are you toying with her ?"

Hannibal didn't lift his eyes from the glasses.

— "She can be an alibi, and attest of my mental health if needed."

— "She has doubts"

He paused.

— "I know. And assuming your past acquaintance, it would probably be best if I stopped seeing her altogether"

Surprised, Frances nodded she wasn't expecting him to accept it so easily. Still, this 'chance' encounter left her bereft. Meeting Bedelia was akin to loosing another friend. Was Fox Mulder alive ? Who would he be ? How about Jack O'Neill and Daniel Jackson ? Samantha Carter ? Air force officers ? Taking the glass out of her hands, Hannibal washed and rinsed it before his fingers found her cheek. Frances snapped out of her haze at the contact.

— "What are the odds, really ? Out of the three hundred thousand million people in the US, that she would be the witness to our marriage"

The psychiatrist slid his arms around her waist, kissing her hair.

— "I don't understand it either, my beautiful. I guess the universe is stranger that I thought. This can be no mere coincidence"

As his nose caressed the loose ringlets, Hannibal's mind drifted to the image of a red-haired Bedelia.

— "I never asked you why you dye your hair. Was it because of your friend ?"

— "Dana Scully ? No. It was the mark of the Keeper of Time"

Hannibal regarded her curiously, wondering if she would shed the colour now that her title had been transferred to another.

— "How so, my beautiful ?"

— "My first mission was in ancient Roma. I was captured, and sold."

Speechless, Hannibal could only tighten his hold around Frances. A young woman sold as a slave could only lead to one outcome. Rape. Frozen, he waited for the rest of the story, hope and fear mingling in his mind.

— "When I made it clear that I wasn't going to be a domestic, obedient slave and willing to fight, they died my hair with henna to make me stand out. They called me the red witch"

So she had escaped that gruesome fate… And it made sense, for if she was a shy woman, she never recoiled from him in bed. Meaning she didn't fear men. Still, those missions had brought her to many hopeless situations.

There was so much she had yet to share, so much he had not been willing to hear at first. And now that he believed her, he realised he was avoiding any mention of her travels for fear of talking about the elf she had fallen in love with before him. His possessive streak couldn't handle it. Perhaps now was time to open his horizon and have her recount her tales.

Grabbing a reddish ringlet between his fingers, he studied the intense color.

— "It suits you well, my beautiful"

— "I have some reddish highlights by default, so it's not too far-fetched. But I kept the symbol, it gave me strength"

Like him, Frances had been through hell. Like him, she had grown a tight armor to protect herself. But where he had lost his humanity, the trauma too early in his life, she had retained hers.

— "Aye. You have strength aplenty. Perhaps you should write this text as well"

Frances lifted an eyebrow, watching as he fiddled with her hair.

— "Because you want to read it, or because it will help me evacuate the emotions of this first travel ?"

Hannibal sighed, letting the ringlet escape his hold to search Frances' gaze.

— "Both, my beautiful. It is time for you to shed the hardships of your past life."

— "And admit it, you are curious"

Curious ? He was giddy, bouncing internally like a two-year-old in front of a candy shop.

— "To think that you have seen Rome in the 2nd century. Of course, I am curious. You know of my fondness for Italy"

A shadow passed behind her wide chocolate orbs.

— "Yeah. I love this country too, it flows in my blood. But I will never set foot in Rome again"

He could understand her reasons, traumatic events could do that to someone. He avoided his childhood him like the plague. Yet, his curiosity was peaked.

— "But the architecture ?"

— "I didn't see much of it, being locked in dingeons and such. But the Colyseum was neat"

— "You saw it ?"

There was such intensity in the silence that followed that his insides twisted. And when at last she answered, it left him stunned.

— "I fought in the arena"

The enormity of it struck him speechless. His tongue darted over his upper lip, giving him time to consider it. Frances, fighting in the Colyseum. His heart lurched, protectiveness over his wife taking over as he tightened his hold over her arms. How did she survive such an ordeal ?

— "How old were you?", he whispered, his face inches from hers.

Her soft breath fanned upon his lips.

— "Sixteen."

— "How… how was it ?"

She plunged her ageless eyes into his, and Hannibal understood why she didn't care about his age. For no amount of experience could possibly come close to hers.

— "Frightening. But the structure was complete. Compared to what I've seen during my school years, it's half better."

Hannibal' lips quirked. Would she ever cease to amaze him ? Gathering the young woman in his arms, he gently lay his cheek upon the crown of her head.

— "Hannibal ?"

— "Mmm ?"

— "How old were you when your world changed"

What a subtle way to ask… about Mischa. In this very moment, the psychiatrist remembered that she had never enquired about what had made him… him. Gathering that she knew – just like the fact that he was a cannibal - he had failed to mention it. Now, he was assessing anew. Perhaps she didn't know, but feared to ask. Or perhaps it was the way she accepted him, respecting the privacy of his trauma.

— "Twelve."

He pulled slightly away to be able to meet her eyes, trying to read the reasons behind her question. Failing at finding the answers he sook, he decided to voice his doubts.

— "I thought you knew. Didn't you?"

Her head shook from left to right, her gaze earnest.

— "No. I knew nothing about it. Will you tell me, someday ?"

Someday. No matter what, she always offered a way out. And he took it without shame.

— "Yes, my beautiful. Someday"


	24. Chapter 24 - Tied for eternity

**_So, you might have expected this moment for a while and here it is. I'm quite happy about the way it turned out. I strongly recommend you check out Montserrat Caballé's performance of "Mio babbino caro" so you can get a feel of the scene. I was expecting something forceful … and was stunned by her skill. That lady is just awesome, and has the most angelic voice ever. Cheers!_**

Will adjusted his vest for the thousandth time, wondering if Alana would find him classy today. After all, he wasn't likely to make that effort again … unless he asked for her hand, which was quite far from his mind at the moment. The enormous Lecter mansion seemed to look down on him, judging his simple shirt and jacket from the top of its two stories' elegance. Will shrugged, climbing the few steps to the entrance porch. The weather was mild enough for January, and the wind rather tame. Good, Frances' wouldn't freeze to death on her way to the court house.

The sound of vocalisation reached his ears before he rang the doorbell, effectively stopping when the singsong device echoed in the grand house. The sound of skittering feet approached and the door was swung open, revealing a little woman in her forties. Will started, unused to finding strangers in the Lecter's house. His nervousness returned tenfold, his eyes darting everywhere but on the woman's face.

— "Ah, you must be Will, right?"

— "Uh, yes"

— "The bride is nearly ready, if you can wait…"

Frances' loud voice suddenly rose in the corridor.

— "Get your ass in the living room, Will!"

The empath smiled; trust Frances to step heartily upon traditions and boundaries. The little woman huffed, then let him in. Will took a few strides and passed the first opening on the left; the very lounge where she had told him about Galahad. Instead of being settled on the sofa, she sat, her back stiff like a rod, upon a chair. Her entire being glowed, from the dress that covered her legs and arms with fluid cloth to the very light make-up that enhanced her eyes. The bodice of the dress revealed her cleavage in an oldish fashion, the heart-shaped silk embroidered with a thread so bright that it echoed with the rest of the immaculate chiffon. Simple, with very little volume, but so classy that he nearly took his jaw off the floor.

— "Hey, Brother. I'm glad you're here," she smiled.

Will smiled back as he fidgeted by the chimney. The little woman skittered back and took her place right behind the bride, focusing on taming the wild strands they had left free. A braid shaped like a crown surrounded Frances' head, giving her a regal air that would make Hannibal squirm for sure. Damn, she was impressive. It was no wonder her maid tended to her as if she was a queen. Sober, yet incredibly classy. Those two were a thousand miles away from him, and Will found that he didn't care for they were both his friends.

— "Ready?" he asked.

Frances gave him a very thoughtful look.

— "I've been ready since the day I set eyes upon him."

Coming from anyone else, Will would have huffed in derision. But given Frances and Hannibal's story… There was nothing preposterous in her claim.

— "You wanted to be sure you could say 'yes' properly?" he teased.

The young woman opened her eyes wide, then winced as the hairdresser pulled at a strand too harshly.

— "Sorry, sorry, madam," she stuttered.

Frances mumbled an "it's all right" even if she hated the process altogether. Yet, she couldn't do such things herself. When she turned back to Will, she had lost the thread of conversation.

— "So, what were you saying again?"

— "You were preparing your voice. OH! You're going to sing."

Will felt strangely giddy; everytime Frances sung, it took him back to the past. Like a trance of sort, more powerful even than Hannibal's hypnosis. Her voice was powerful and controlled, but sometimes so ethereal… He was looking forward to hearing whatever she had up her sleeve, but it seemed that stress gnawed at her.

— "Yeah. I worked my ass off on it, so I hope I won't screw up."

Will's eyebrows rose.

— "It's always awesome when you sing."

The young woman tutted, squirming on her seat like a schoolgirl; such a contrast with her grand dress.

— "Hannibal is a difficult man to please. Nothing but perfect can possibly satisfy him."

— "True. But he loves you, and will be touched."

Frances scrunched her nose, choosing a weird word to answer.

— "Surely"

— "So what is it?"

A string of Italian words passed her lips at high speed, and Will definitely knew that he had no idea about the song. Seeing his fazed expression, she laughed.

— "Opera. Pucellini. I had to lower the key, and try a thousand different ways to pull it off but I think I can do it now."

A short silence ensued before the little woman eventually declared Frances' hair done. Will had no difficulty spotting how the bride pursed her – unpainted – rosy lips to prevent from shouting, "finally!", rising instead to thank the woman and ask for the bill to be sent to Lecter house. Sometimes, she reminded him of a housewife of noble descent. Startling at the thought, Will wondered what she had been in her past lives … if he had one, perhaps she, too, had several lives to relate to? This whole story of time travel was pretty messed up anyway, and he mulled over the thought as Frances drew her long midnight coat over the dress.

_15 minutes later_

Her heart beat a thousand miles a minute when Will pulled Alana's car – the civic was fancier than his dog smelling one – in front of the courthouse. She didn't let her eyes wander on the building much, not on the surroundings which were agreeable enough. No. In less than an hour, she would become Mrs Lecter. Married to Hannibal Lecter, the most wanted and famous cannibal of all history. Anxiety should have crushed giddiness … yet somehow, she felt like she was about to reunite two parts of her soul. An immense relief flooded her as Will offered his arm, his face solemn as they climbed the stairs.

— "I am grateful for your presence, Will"

For once, his intense blue eyes didn't pull away from her face. There were a thousand emotions bubbling in his gaze, fondness and excitation being one of them. He was proud that she had chosen him to give her away.

— "I am honoured, Frances."

The young woman nodded, feeling the odd weight of the crown braid upon her head. Her dressed swished elegantly around her legs, the fabric so light and ethereal. The result of three visits – on her own – to New York to find out exactly what she was looking for, the price being unknown to her in the end. If the designer had been surprised by the absence of lady friends, she had done her job well. Frances was grateful for her advice, and the effort put into that dress that fit her perfectly. The exact balance between elegance and sobriety; no extra volume, no fluff, no ribbons and Calais lace. Frances didn't need a friend to tell her what she already knew; this dress was exactly what she wanted.

Yes. Today, she felt more than a princess, for Hannibal was no Prince. He would be her King, and she the Queen. Protecting and cherishing her people, while always deferring to the majesty that had stolen her heart.

There would be no flourish, and music, and flowers and cheesy stuff today in the courthouse. Just a handful of Hannibal's friends – Mrs Komeda being part of that batch – Will and Alana, Bedelia and, surprisingly, Jack. They had a truce with the head of behavioural sciences, but she suspected Hannibal to have reasons to extend the invitation to him. An offer to see him as a man in love, or to imprint a domestic image upon the man. Perhaps a way to keep him close, or to inflate his ego. Whichever the reasons were, Frances didn't want to know. Not today.

For the gate of the City Hall now laid behind her, and the wedding room was but a few dozen feet away. The slight hushed voices told her they had not detected their approach yet. But Hannibal… Hannibal had. His hair was pulled back the way she loved it, unveiling his intense gaze … and he was looking straight into her eyes, even from the distance. There was no smile on his handsome face, no movement at all expect from the sparkle in his eyes. Frances' breath caught as he held her under his power, pinned at Will's arm, her feet walking on their own as they passed the French doors. A hush fell upon the guests. Alana, Jack and other people she'd met were here but she had only eyes for the groom.

Hannibal stood, regal, in a three-piece suit of silver and white. The perfect pendant to her dress of white and silver. A quick glance at his waistcoat brought a smile to Frances' lips; it was the one she had gifted him with for his birthday. She didn't know he valued the present so highly that he would wear it for his own wedding. Curiously, this little attention, this proof of trust towards her taste and handiwork brought unexpected tears to her eyes. Frances blinked them away furiously. She hated crying in front of people, so she wouldn't. Hannibal's intense presence made it difficult, though, for every breath she took was more ragged than the last. When this man's attention settled upon someone … well, better be strong, for if not, burning was the only other option. And she was burning inside, wondering if she would be sturdy enough to survive him. Her core shook, as did her resolve while they took the last remaining steps to the altar.

She felt Hannibal's presence by her side just as much as she saw him, as if her body hummed in anticipation. Like a pair of magnets, attuned to each other, that wreaked havoc in her sensations.

— "He's put on the great spread today," Will said by her side, trying to lighten the mood.

Frances squeaked an emotional yes. Dashing, magnificent, intense, magnetic … but most of all, alive. Not well, not, for his mind was messed up. But he was there, and ready to marry her. Not lying dead on a battlefield, and this was worth the world to her. So Frances took a deep breath and, leaving Hannibal's eyes for a split of a second, kissed Will's cheek.

— "Thank you for your care, Brother."

Will gave her a smile.

— "Be happy, Frances"

Then he took her hand, and transferred it into Hannibal's waiting grasp. Their fingers touched and wrapped around each other's, and the world started spinning again.

— "Take care of her'", the empath ordered the psychiatrist with a serious undertone.

The lamb, threatening the wolf. What a weird moment. And instead of lifting an eyebrow to belittle Will's concern, Hannibal answered truthfully.

— "You know I will"

His voice rolled over both bride and empath like a blanket of the finest wool, securing them in a web of his making. The cannibal's charm at its best. Then, as Will retreated, Hannibal's eyes returned to Frances and he took in her flustered face. For a moment, they just held each other's gaze, searching for answers. Did they really want to do this? Was it a masquerade? How much of it was true? Surprisingly, Hannibal's golden-flecked irises seemed unsettled; emotions simmering under the surface. And if his lips were not smiling, they only betrayed the trouble of his heart. Yes. Hannibal was moved by her gift, for she gave herself freely.

Did he admire the cut of her dress? The redness of her cheeks? The crowned braid that gave her enough poise to dare stand by his side? Perhaps, for in his eyes she saw admiration and surprise. Hannibal gave her fingers a squeeze and, at last, his lips quirked into a smile. Not his usual sassy smirks that only lifted the corner of his mouth. No. The joyous expression reached his eyes this time, a genuine smile that radiated from his very core. One of gratitude and happiness.

In front of them, a woman stood, clad in the official garb. After exchanging a surprised – she wasn't expecting such a young woman – but softened look with Bedelia Du Maurier who sat on Hannibal's other side, she stated:

— "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to join this man and this woman in matrimony."

Frances' heart leapt into her chest. Those words, she had heard them on TV when watching US series of all sorts. Never, in her life, had she imagined being their recipient. The notary's voice was clear, her tone filled with meaning as she looked at them with her piercing blue eyes.

_— "__Today you enter as individuals, but you will leave here as husband and wife, blending your lives, expanding your family ties, and embarking upon the grandest adventure of human interaction."_

_Neither Frances nor Hannibal reacted to her words; family was dead, on both sides. And there would be no family of their own either. It weighed like a lead bar in her stomach, to deny Hannibal the right to have children. To deny herself such. Yet, there was no choice. Strangely, she wondered if they were two dead people already. Frances' grasp on Hannibal's hand caused him to squeeze back and she forced herself to listen to the rest._

_Fortunately, the middle-aged woman who performed the ceremony did not seem to notice Frances' sudden paleness as she smiled._

_— "__The story of your life together is still yours to write. All those present have come to witness and celebrate your love and commitment this day – eager to a part of the story not yet told. Remember to treat yourselves and each other with respect, and remind yourselves often of what brought you together."_

_A fucking stone, __Frances thought. The Keeper of Time's stone._

_— "__Take responsibility for making the other feel safe."_

_With a cannibal in the house, yeah. Super safe._

_— "__And give the highest priority to the tenderness, gentleness and kindness that your connection deserves."_

_Frances' sassy thoughts stopped at that, warmth flooding her chest. For all his misgivings, Hannibal was always tender and gentle with her, and she cherished their connection. Her eyes met Hannibal's, and his expression of fondness caused her to melt. He wasn't perfect, her man. Not even close. Broken to the core, and twisted. But she loved him like no other, and could not prevent it. And from the gentle expression of his molten gold irises, she knew he loved her as much as he could._

_— __"__When frustration, difficulty and fear assail your relationship, as they threaten all relationships at some time or another, remember to focus on what is right between you, not just the part that seems wrong."_

_Frances realised that this piece of advice might very well save her marriage to Hannibal, for the wrong might be of top category. What has your man done today? Drunk? Forgotten to do the dishes? Gambled? Hit you? __No, he just squared off and ate a man who'd been rude to him. And manipulated a friend into thinking he was crazy. Neat._

_A bead of sweat descended upon Frances' spine, taking its merry time as she wondered if she would be up to the task. Would they survive their marriage, literally?_

_— " … __just because you may lose sight of it for a moment, it does not mean the sun has gone away. And, if each of you takes responsibility for the quality of your life together, it will be marked by abundance and delight."_

There was a short silence, as if everyone was holding their breath before the blond woman turned to Hannibal. Solemn, she questioned.

— "Do you take this woman to be your wife, to live together in matrimony, to love her, to honour her, to comfort her, and to keep her in sickness and in health, forsaking all others, for as long as you both shall live?"

Hannibal's usually smooth and soothing voice had never been clearer as he stated his intention.

— "I do."

Frances' knees trembled slightly and she was glad the dress covered them. There had been such purpose, such intention in Hannibal's words. A little of Tristan's will infused into the being of the very proper Dr Lecter, the reminder of a knight whose sacrifice had served the greater good, while breaking her heart. Now, the wrongness of it was being repaired. When the notary turned to her with a kind smile, Frances' breath itched. It was her turn, now, to decide whether she wanted to attach herself to this old soul, even though it had reborn twisted to the core.

— "Do you take this man to be your husband, to live together in matrimony, to love him, to honour him, to comfort him, and to keep him in sickness and in health, forsaking all others, for as long as you both shall live?"

Yes, a thousand times yes. She already loved him, honoured him, comforted him. And what better proof of her love than to accept the killer that stood by her side? Frances' voice was firm, and echoed loud and clear in the city hall.

— "I do."

The blond notary nodded.

— "We shall proceed to the exchange of rings._May these rings remind you always of the vows you have taken here today__._"

Bedelia stepped up then, bringing the cushion where their two rings awaited their left hand; their permanent and definitive resting place. And as Hannibal lifted her ring from the immaculate cloth, the notary remained silent, respecting the freedom they had asked for their vows. His eyes were so intense when he caressed her palm, causing her finger to extend. Just a glance to the jewel before his gaze returned to her face. And while his fingers coaxed the ring gently along her finger, sending a swirl of humming through her skin, Hannibal spoke.

— _"__With this ring, I thee wed, and pledge you my soul, now and forever. Let me be your knight, your Tristan, to protect and care for you__, _till death do us part_."_

Frances's throat closed at the mention of Tristan, and she could only watch him, mouth slightly agape, as he promised to care for her like he should have, fifteen hundred years ago. Such meaningful words left her bereft, and she blinked tears away once more. Her left hand now sported a brand-new ring, such a beautiful and sober piece. It was a weird feeling, to be constricted thus, and she wondered if Hannibal would be the sort of man to play with his wedding band.

It was now her turn to pick the golden ring from the cushion and she trembled slightly as she reached for Hannibal's hand. Fortunately, she had recited her wedding vows a thousand times, enough to be able to tell them in her sleep. Still, her heart was beating so loud that blood rushed into her ears. Frances took a calming breath while she slid the perfect golden band to his finger.

_— __"__With this ring, I thee wed, and pledge you my soul, now and forever."_

_Then she intertwined her fingers with his, finding comfort in the familiar touch, and met his eyes._

— "I take you as a husband, to love and to cherish, in sickness and in health, for better or for worse. Let me be your little fairy till death do us part and beyond."

Hannibal's lips quirked at the pun; death had parted them already, yet there they were. She was quite talented, his wife, when it came to overcoming impossible odds. Conventions being conventions, the psychiatrist turned to the notary once more, only to find a smile upon the woman's face.

— "I believe the bride wanted to add something."

Both of his hands were gathered into her smaller ones, and Frances closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. Then her mouth opened, and the purest of sounds fell from her lips. From the very first line, Hannibal's chest swelled with emotion. They had written the vows together, but this … this he wasn't expecting as Frances performed for him one of the most beautiful arias of Pucellini.

"O mio babbino caro  
Mi piace"

He couldn't believe it, and she opened her eyes to give her the most meaningful of glances. Drawing strength from him to manage the highest note without faltering. He braced himself; this was a most difficult moment. But she … she….

"E bello, bello"

She just sang it like a wave, like a droplet tossed around under the Ponte Vecchio until it drowned into the sea. And tears sprang to his eyes as her voice rode the wave so skilfully. How hard had she trained her voice to manage such a beautiful vibrato? And she smiled at him as she went on.

"Vo'andare in Porta Rossa  
A comperar l'anello !"

Hannibal's tears fell over his cheeks as she sang again, her voice stronger now. She had chosen Italy, and Dante. She had chosen to remind him of his mother's origins, and the beauty of a country he loved above all.

« Sì, sì, ci voglio andare!  
E se l'amassi indarno

Damn, the most difficult song in the opera – the i – fell from her rosy lips in a waterfall. Pure, and untainted. Her Italian was so beautiful. Her voice so enchanting, her beauty, today, unmatched. And she loved him… HIM!

"Andrei sul Ponte Vecchio

Ma per buttarmi in Arno!  
Mi struggo e mi tormento!  
O Dio, vorrei morir!"

By God, he knew he didn't deserve it. Nor her devotion, nor her attention, nor the beauty and love she brought to his life. But he would be damned if he didn't enjoy what she gave him willingly. The last notes were a difficult decrescendo, but she handled it with such strength of emotion that he vibrated from head to toe.

"Babbo, pietà, pietà!  
Babbo, pietà, pietà!"

The stunned silence that followed her performance allowed Hannibal to gather Frances in his arms and squeeze the life out of her. Then, at loss for words, he kissed her soundly, incredulous still about the gift she had offered him. Forgotten where the schemes of the day, the reasons why he had invited some of the people, the dinner he's prepared for the evening, and the presence of the others. Gone the implications, the plans and frustrations of the future. Only the now and then counted.

From the corner of his eyes, he watched the notary wipe a tear upon her cheek before she went on.

— "By virtue of the authority vested in me under the laws of the State of Maryland, I now pronounce you husband and wife."

And after sharing a knowing look with both of them, she added.

— "You may kiss the bride … again."

Hannibal turned to Frances whose blush had only intensified, and he swore he had never seen her more beautiful than in this moment when he bent to capture her lips gently. She lifted on her toes to meet him shyly, but her little tongue teased his lower lip. A promise of more to come. Hannibal smirked into the kiss. Yes. Quite spirited, his little fairy.

**_Hey ! I've not had any reviews for the last chapters expect for Mairi. I gathered you didn't like it much. I hope this one was up to standard. Let me now by dropping a word! Thanks._**


	25. Chapter 25 - Wedding breakfast

_**So, a storm is looming at the horizon. Two, actually. Enjoy the calm. I also strongly recommend to listen to the flower duet on youtube, the version with Sabine and Marianne Crebassa. Their duo is the best because none of them outshines the other.  
**_

_**I do thank hearlity the guest who left me a review, it made my day to have someone dropping a comment out of the blue !**_

Hannibal's chest was filled with pride. Somehow, he had not foreseen that such emotions would assault him. Not as strongly, not as vividly. Yet, as he watched his beautiful wife relished in the dish he had cooked – far in advance – for the wedding guests, he couldn't help but find her exquisite. Beautiful, of course, but it wasn't the main source of his pride. She was … so much more. Emphatic and clever, witty yet soft, cultured and multi-talented, an artist, like himself, with an incredible mind. Beside him at the head of the table – yes, he had, for once, shared the place of honour – Frances outshone her surroundings. It wasn't only her noble poise – albeit it helped – neither the glint of gold in her eyes, nor the delicate lace that covered her arms. It was her, altogether, and her choice to take his name as her own and attach herself to him. The keeper of time, grounded by his side.

A token of love, a token of trust. And while the guests bantered and threw compliments and pleasantries his way, Hannibal revisited the moment he had stored in his memory palace. It was but five little minutes of their afternoon, but they held such significance.

_Hannibal's hand slid from Frances' neck to her hip, taking the time to savour her skin along her exposed spine. The young woman shivered at the sensuality of his touch; aside from the twinkle in his eyes, the psychiatrist's phlegm didn't falter as he entertained Mrs Komeda. Sensing Frances' amusement, he felt her little hand circle his own back, digging under the waistcoat to caress him until she settled on his belly. Her fingers played below the raw silk, hidden from their guest as she caressed the sensitive spot just above his waistband. Cheeky lady._

_Mrs Komeda's eyes narrowed slightly, feeling that she was missing something. Hannibal nearly snorted; the old woman was still spooked that Frances had stolen the bachelor from her clutches. Especially after her performance at the wedding. Since his guests from the Baltimore Academy still oozed their scepticism about their couple, he was glad that his wife's demonstration had crushed their doubts and preconceptions. Without even knowing, Frances had shown them how wrong they had been to assume she was a gold digger or a young thing going after his money. But in sight of Mrs Komeda's pursed lips, Hannibal couldn't refrain the urge to nail it hard into her skull. Taking advantage of her gushing about Frances' singing, he gave his wife a smile that conveyed the extend of his affection._

— _"__Would you sing the flower duet for me, my beautiful?" he asked._

_The young woman's eyes widened slightly, craning her neck to meet his gaze. She knew that singing was a skill he did not possess, and probably wondered the reasons for his request._

— "_Hannibal, the girl cannot perform alone, this is a duet," Mrs Komeda tutted._

_How predictable she was, this not very friend of his! Frances lifted an eyebrow at being called "a girl", but refrained from commenting as she spotted the twitch at the corner of his lips. On a whim, she stood on her toes to kiss his lips gently. Taking advantage of her closeness, he breathed into her ear a faint "trust me". The hungry look she sent him caused his body to hum. And despite the absurdity of his request, she complied with his wishes and started singing the soprano introduction, her gaze turning distant as she searched for the proper words. Thank her memory for being so fine._

_The room went silent, entranced by the beauty of the Lakmé Opera. Or perhaps by Frances' control and so clear voice. After his wife's tirade, the mezzo was supposed to respond and he could see in her interrogative gaze that she had no idea was he was planning. So when he started whistling his part of the tune, she couldn't help but smile incredulously. He knew this piece by heart, and the mezzo voice was so easily replaced thus._

_He would never forget the fond look she gave him then; the golden flecks telling him everything he needed to know. And as he led her, setting the pace, Hannibal read how amused, how awed she was by his creativity. His hand asked for hers as they both joined the flower duet, he whistling the mezzo melody so that she could top it with her amazing soprano voice. And for once, they were reunited in their art, totally attuned to each other, and sharing something they considered of equal beauty. Their fingers intertwined, their eyes firmly planted in the others, and her voice washed over him like a benevolent wave. The connexion was so strong, the energy flowing between them like an open link, an unbreakable bond. The result of undying love? Of fifteen hundred years of yearning? He would never know, he didn't need to know for her love, at this moment, flooded him entirely. _

_Yes, a fond memory indeed. One that had made his statement more than clear. Tomorrow, the whole of Baltimore high society would know that Dr Hannibal Lecter had found his match. There would be no more talk of gold digger and sugar daddy._

Hannibal's lips quirked up, his smile more relaxed than she had ever seen him. Frances reached for his hand, her little fingers caressing his much larger ones, sliding between them to establish the contact she longed for. She knew how Hannibal had planned the day, inviting the people that could benefit him in the future, or testify of his love. Not one person was here by chance, or only for the affection they thought they shared with him. Not even Will. Yet, in the midst of this planning, cunning and manipulation, she was surprised to find that her own emotions had found an echo in the older man. Tristan, somehow, and his pulsating heart still existed beneath the surface. She was seeing him, right now, with his gentle smile and glazed look. Hannibal's emotions worn on his face, his features peaceful.

He was so beautiful with his hair swept aside and his three-piece costume, her embroidery displayed proudly upon his chest. Reclined against the sofa – the Baltimore high class had left – high cheekbones, strong jaw and amber eyes. And those lips … mmm. How sensual they could be when he tasted her like a dish. So dashing, especially since she knew what rested below the amazing suit. For none of those present – or so she hoped – had ever seen Hannibal undone expect for her. The psychiatrist, bathed in sweat and panting in exertion, his hair askew and chest hair on display. She knew his body by heart now, worshipped him even. Such a handsome man… Hers, now. Frances set her head upon Hannibal's shoulder, letting the slight dizziness of the champagne wash over her. Her hand had not left his this evening, and she wasn't about to let go as his voice rumbled in his chest.

Of the wedding party, only Will, Alana and Bedelia remained. Dinner had come and gone, a sumptuous ballet of dishes and wines tastier than she had ever had. There had been some meat, too, and Frances had obliged her husband in eating some of his preparations. He had promised to never feed her human flesh, and she hoped that, on this day, he had kept it. Frances sighed; she felt awful for doubting him, but who knew how the cogs of his mind ran? Hannibal could lie to her without blinking, and she now knew she was powerless to detect his half-truths. He had told her it was Kobe beef, and truth be told, she'd never eaten anything so delicious. Her intense look had been spotted by Bedelia, and Frances had dropped any questions in favour of sampling the dishes with a hum of approval. She couldn't bring more suspicion, especially from Hannibal's psychiatrist. Bedelia had a sharp mind. Speaking of which, the blond woman was now addressing her, her disturbing gaze fixed upon her.

And even if Frances's eyes were closed, she could still feel the tingle in her spine that indicated danger. Did it come from Hannibal's proximity, or Bedelia's scrutiny? The woman's drawl washed over her senses like a coat of sticky liquid.

— "I couldn't help but notice your little addition to the vows, Frances. In death and beyond…"

As usual – or, what was usual for Bedelia, at least – the woman didn't finish her sentence. A known manipulation technique to have people answering whatever was on their mind. But Frances refused to take the bait, opening her eyes to level a smirk at the blonde.

— "Yes. Did you have a question?"

Blunt. Hannibal squeezed her hand to indicate to play nice, but Frances was rather fed up with their non-communication. Taken aback, Bedelia blinked her wide blue eyes before her mind tried to pry the information more directly.

— "I haver never heard this particular take on the notion. I was wondering what you meant by it"

Frances refrained from blurting out, "see, when you want to speak plainly you can!' Instead, she straightened on her seat, keeping one of her knees in contact with Hannibal. And rather than playing hide and seek, she opted for the truth.

— "It just means than when Hannibal dies, I will find a way to follow his soul, wherever he goes…"

— "I would sleep more soundly if you refrained from mentioning our death, my beautiful."

Hannibal's smooth voice caused her to drop a kiss to his cheek.

— "I am not responsible for the traditional vows, darling. Til death do us part, remember?"

The psychiatrist squeezed her hand a little tighter and they both heard Will mutter his agreement.

— "And even then…"

Frances smirked; out of those people, Will was the only one who could understand what she had meant. Fifteen hundred years and death had not managed to separate them. Alana, on the other hand, was a pretty rational woman who looked at her boyfriend as if he was dumb.

— "Nothing beats death, Will"

— "Never say never," came Hannibal's smooth voice.

His statement set an incredulous atmosphere, but Alana, who had been mentored by Hannibal, was used to debating with him. Sometimes, Frances wondered how blind the woman was for she pushed him without an ounce of fear, ignorant of the beast that laid within. How could she not feel the darkness that lay between those golden flecked orbs? The power beneath the three-piece suit? The savagery that waited, lurking behind the civility, ready to pounce?

— "Death seems rather final, Hannibal."

— "How do you know?" Frances asked.

Alana turned her beautiful gaze to her, pondering. There was always a little frostiness between them, as if the young psychiatrist was afraid of her somehow. Or only jealous? After all, Frances had wormed her way into her mentor's bed in less than a week, and was now best friends with her boyfriend. All of it in such little time that it probably irked Alana who had known Will for years.

— "I … didn't know you were religious," she stated.

Her face was open, her manners pleasant. But her eyes were guarded. Frances gave Alana a warm smile that seemed to work for her shoulders dropped a little.

— "I am not. But I am adamant that love can go way beyond the chains of human life."

— "In a figurative way, because the love we bestow upon our relatives changes people for the best."

— "Yes, there is that as well."

And the discussion ended there, without an ounce of information being truly exchanged as Hannibal stood from the sofa and wend to the sound system. A minute later, a waltz was playing in the living room, and he extended his hand to Frances.

— "Mrs Lecter, would you honour me with a dance?"

A wide smile split Frances' face and she slid her little fingers into her husband's strong grip. There had been no plans for an official ball, but the living room was wide enough to dance in, and it seemed than Hannibal wanted to stick to traditions. His warm hand slid behind her back and he lifted their joined hands to the right, ready for a swirl. They kept the pose for a moment as Hannibal plunged his gaze into her eyes, a swirl of untold emotions dancing in amber orbs. Frances didn't move, didn't blink as his gaze pierced her, as if he'd turned her upside down, laid bare for all to see. But it was just an illusion, for no one but him could roam her soul so easily, so deeply. And she gave it all, as she always had, and always would, for he was her everything.

Hannibal's deep orbs softened, a gleam of understanding shining within. Gratitude as well. And just before he swept her away, he whispered words she would never forget. "Tave Myliu," his own declaration of love in his mother tongue. She would never hear it again.

They twirled around at a leisurely pace, none of them too eager to make a demonstration or overexert themselves. This evening was about love, and both their body hummed with the rhythm as Hannibal led them. There was no need to show off, no need to push any muscle to its limit, no show to sustain. For once, her husband was at peace, his attention solely centred upon her, his need to perform forgotten.

Never had Frances enjoyed a round of waltz so strongly, and when, at last, the piece ended, her heart was ready to burst from happiness. The young woman accepted another glass of champagne as Hannibal asked Bedelia for a dance, and she eyed them carefully while exchanging a few words with Will. Alana had gone to the restroom for a moment, and she grasped the opportunity to tease her friend.

— "Won't you ask Alana for a dance?"

Will's flustered squeak caused Frances to laugh. Her mirth caused Hannibal to steal a glance in her direction, and she smiled at him. The psychiatrist danced beautifully, and it was great to see it from the sidelines for once. His lean body twirled expertly, his feet moving of their own accord, graceful. But despite the easiness with which he led Bedelia, Frances could see the stiffness of his posture, the slight tension at the corner of his mouth. No one else could have noticed; Hannibal's was always very composed. There was such a fine line between tense and poised when it came to him, such control…

But if Frances had first been worried, or jealous, she now knew there was nothing to fear. For what it was worth, Hannibal was much more relaxed when he held her close than in Bedelia's reach. Perhaps because he knew she would never sell him. Despite her misgivings about his 'art', she loved him through and through, and he could trust her to never go behind his back. Frances would never betray him; Hannibal knew this like he knew his own heart.

When Alana returned, Frances mockingly asked her for a dance. Strangely enough, the young psychiatrist accepted her proposal, and the two ladies started twirling around the living room. Frances' creamy dress mixed with Alana's blood red skirt, and the two women laughed at their own stupidity as they went backwards, Frances leading Alana in an attempt to follow the rhythm. Perhaps it was the champagne, but she found that she appreciated the psychiatrist's giggles much more than her usual worried frowns.

— "I'm so happy you are together with Will now. He's been pining for you."

Alana lifted a dark eyebrow, her blue eyes twinkling in delight as her body seemed to deflate in Frances' arms.

— "It's been complicated, but I'm glad too."

— "I'm sure you can make it work. You're both pretty empathic after all. You'll take care of him, right?"

— "I've been taking care of him for a while already"

Frances bit her lip. Yes, she had to admit that Alana had been longer in Will's life than herself. Even if she totally ignored Will's past as Galahad. How could she express her affection for the man without Alana feeling threatened? Brother-in-arms? Yes, he was family.

— "He's like a brother to me, he deserves all the happiness he can get."

And while they danced like a couple of stray dogs, the two women conspired about Will, and Hannibal, and mended a bond they had not even known could be here. Worried, Will eventually relented and offered his hand to Alana who took it with a grin. For a moment, Frances watched as they swayed on the dance floor, absolutely out of rhythm, but totally adorable. Hannibal appeared by her side, his arm sliding around her waist once more and she leant into him.

— "See, I convinced Will to dance by stealing his girlfriend."

— "You are sneaky, my wife. Alana is a fine woman, but I didn't know you swayed that way."

Frances levelled Hannibal with a shocked look.

— "You know all about that, darling. And especially my likes and dislikes."

A smirk flourished on his sensual lips. Any other guy might have remarked how she loved riding stick far too much to be interested in a woman or whichever rude nonsense that would make her blush in shame. But not Hannibal who simply kissed her hair, breathing into her ear.

— "And I wouldn't dare forgetting, my beautiful."

Before any innuendo could lead to total lack of control – he was way too handsome in this suit! — Bedelia Du Maurier came to bid them goodnight. Perhaps a side effect from being the only single one in between two couples that seemed very much in love. Frances refrained from sighing; there was no chance of rekindling her former friendship with the woman Scully had become. And so, she bowed with grace, receiving Bedelia's 'heartfelt' congratulations, before Hannibal took her to the entrance. She didn't need to see his face to know the thoughtful look that would grace his features as he let Bedelia go. Would they ever see her again?

Bah, who cared? For now, the evening was about them both, and Will and Alana's new couple. Frances would be damned if she didn't enjoy her wedding day until the wee hours of the morning. And while Hannibal offered his hand to Alana next, Frances and Will crashed on the sofa to watch them twirl around the living room. None of them felt like dancing together – it would be too weird among siblings. And when the ladies' feet hurt too much to take another dance, Hannibal settled in the harpsichord to play his new composition.

Frances sat beside him, mesmerised by his hands. She was under his spell, entirely and totally, and there was nothing she could do about it. Midnight passed and went, and they all ended with a cup of coffee – and tea in Frances' case – slouched on the sofas. Well, apart from Hannibal who sat, relaxed, with his wife's head upon his shoulder.

— "Are you planning a honeymoon?" Alana asked, trying to keep a yawn at bay and failing miserably.

— "No. Work is too busy at the moment and Jack doesn't seem agreeable to an absence."

No one remarked how Hannibal was needed to keep Will from going absolutely insane. After his encephalitis, Jack Crawford had asked for closer supervision and both men seemed quite satisfied with it. If any, Frances found that her men seemed to be mending their bond quite nicely. They even started to share looks that she couldn't decipher, one of them being right now. The young woman frowned; she had the distinct impression that they were hiding something from her. Perhaps it was the alcohol that made her suspicious. Well, she was too tired to interpret it any way, and she reclined against Hannibal's shoulder. He was so warm, he smelt so good – especially in that spot at the junction of his jaw and his neck – she felt safe in his arms. So when his smooth voice washed over her, Frances could only hum in agreement.

— "You need not stay stranded if I cannot travel yet. Perhaps you can take advantage of the milder season to spend some time at the beach house?"

Frances nodded absently. Honeymoon would have to wait, but she didn't mind much.

— "I could practise the piano."

— "Why not, you love the sound better than the harpsichord."

Yes, there was nothing like a grand piano to lift her mood. And she had another project up her sleeve as well.

— "Yes. And I wanted to install targets to train my archery. It soothes the mind. I wonder if it wouldn't benefit you as well, Will"

Frances gave the empath a pointed look to which he responded with a nod. Yes. He had mastered archery rather well as a knight, and wanted to test his skills anew. To train under the guise of learning to focus and calm his mind was a good excuse.

— "What say you, husband?

Alana chuckled at her words, her cheeks reddened by the alcohol.

— "Now you just sound like Aragorn!"

Frances' blood froze, her face paling instantly.

— "What? What did you say?"

The young woman's tension caused Alana to straighten in her chair, worried she might have said something wrong. Little did she know that her innocent jab had, indeed, opened a gaping wound. So it was with very little malice that she answered back.

— "Aragorn, in the caves of the army of the dead. Lord of the rings, the return of the King?"

Frances' mind went blank. Could it be a coincidence? Was it even possible? Hannibal's hand squeezed hers tightly, his eyes searching her frozen features; he couldn't ignore the name for she had spoken of the future king at length. Frances was trying so intently to hide her shock, but her hands were shaking. Eventually, she found her voice, trying to sound detached.

— "You are telling me that there is a set of movies that tell the tale of Aragorn?"

Of course, her husband wasn't fooled by her attempt to sound casual, but Alana had stopped eyeing her as if she was crazy.

— "Yeah. Haven't you seen them? The adaptation is quite loose so you'd better read the books first."

Frances swallowed thickly, her mind running too fast for her to grasp all implications.

— "The book. Ok, ok"

— "Have you been living under a rock recently? This is so famous that even Will knows about it."

The shock was so great that Frances nearly choked. Seeing her level of distress, Hannibal came to her rescue.

— "It is not in my habit to keep informed about such things, and neither does Frances."

By now, Will was eyeing Frances suspiciously. He knew how sturdy she could be in the face of danger, and was wondering what this Aragorn dude was. After all, she'd spoken little about her travel to middle earth, and always called him Estel. Hope. The name she clung to desperately.

— "Well, it's a great book. Tolkien was praised for his world building, and the languages he created. His work has inspired modern fantasy. A lot."

— "Tell me the end."

It was an order, not a request. One uttered through clenched teeth. How could she have missed something so damn important! Dismissed the trailers and frenzy about this "Lord of the Rings" movie altogether? Ignored the huge commercial posters here and there? Truth be told, she had seen them, but not paid attention for she didn't care much about movies in the first place. And none of the actors had reminder her of Aragorn anyway.

— "If you want to read it…" Alana trailed.

Frances nearly exploded then, and was grateful for Hannibal's intervention.

— "My wife has the peculiar habit to always start a book with the last pages."

— "That's … strange."

Frances took a deep breath, wondering how to ask for information while claiming ignorance. After all, the book could be partially wrong, and have different characters in it. Considering they were speaking of the same Aragorn, of course.

— "I hate things that finish badly. So… how does it end?"

— "Well. The main hero, the hobbit, loses a finger while casting the ring into the Volcano, which kills the evil guy. His best friend is okay."

An immense wave of relief washed over Frances at hearing that Frodo and Sam had survived the explosion of mount doom. As she lay, dying on the battlefield, she had lost all hopes of seeing them again. Once more, Hannibal's sturdy presence by her side grounded her.

— "And the others?"

Alana shot her another look – probably wondering how she knew about others – but went on. Behind her, Will was wearing a worried frown, his clear blue eyes boring a hole into her.

— "Mmm, Aragorn becomes king and marries his elvish girlfriend, Arwen."

— "An elf?" she asked, trying to hide the huge smile that split her face.

The false surprise in her voice fooled Alana pretty efficiently, for the psychiatrist felt compelled to explain.

— "Yes. Fantasy elves, not Santa or Harry Potter elves. Tall, beautiful and so on"

Frances actually chuckled at that. Yes, Legolas as a Santa elf, right. Fortunately, by now, Alana was rambling. Thank the alcohol! The young psychiatrist seemed quite taken with the book, and eager to share her passion. Good; until she read it, Frances would never have enough information.

— "The dwarf is OK too and becomes friends with another elf. In the end, they sail to the grey havens and to the immortal lands together."

Frances swallowed… Legolas had sailed, as promised. As she deflated against Hannibal, hiding her face into his shoulder, she wondered if her husband was jealous. By now, he must have understood, at least partially, what they were talking about.

— "Are you OK, Frances?" Alana eventually asked.

Pushing the hurt from the loss at bay, she nodded.

— "Yes, sorry. I'm getting tired, that's all. So, good ending for all, right? I might read this book then."

— "Yes. A happy ending"

Frances nodded, breath short. She hated herself for caring so much when her life had changed, hated Alana for bringing it up on her wedding day. The debriefing with Hannibal was going to hurt, and she would need time to come to terms with her feelings. How jealous was he going to be? Tristan already knew that she had been in love with an elf before meeting him in the fifth century; it didn't mean Hannibal would accept it anew. Could life be more complicated?

Will and Alana left not long afterwards, feeling the shift in the mood quite keenly. And if Will's eyes promised Frances to have a long talk, she embraced him all the same to thank him for walking her down the aisle.

And when Hannibal brought her to bed, his eyes guarded, Frances sighed.

— "You have much to explain, wife," he said, tugging on his ascot tie.

The young woman refused the sadness that wanted to take hold of her heart, replacing Hannibal's fingers instead. The gesture of a wife towards her husband. The psychiatrist's hands settled upon her hips as she worked, his intense gaze boring holes into her skull.

— "Tomorrow, Hannibal," she stated firmly.

Once the ascot untied, her hands roamed his broad shoulders, coming to rest on each side of his marvellous cheekbones. He was so beautiful, so incredibly carved.

— "This evening is all about us, and I'd rather fall asleep in your arms after our lovemaking that dig up the past."

Her words seem to hit home, for Hannibal's features relaxed instantly. She was acknowledging their bond, and newlywed status. Setting priorities, telling him that today, he was more important than anything else. For once, it was all he needed.

The psychiatrist covered her hands with his own, dipping to kiss the beautiful woman that had decided to grace his life. This night, Hannibal endeavoured to show his wife how much he loved her. How her attention touched him, how her singing had called his heart, and her beauty enthralled him. Unlacing the long flowing dress, he found a set of lacy underwear that washed, for the moment, at least, the questions that danced in his mind. The sight of her creamy skin covered in this stunning set of garter belt, plunging bra and knickers of dentelle de Calais caused every other function to shut down effectively.

Frances welcomed him warmly, as usual, relishing in every caress, every kiss, every single breath and moan that escaped him. Little by little, he shed the layers that covered her soft skin, his sensual lips replacing the items to keep her warm. Her little hands gently freed him from the three-piece suit, her own mouth roaming his body as if he was made of candy. How good her lips felt upon his bare body! How flattering the gleam of greediness in her eyes as she took in his naked form. How sensual the moan that escaped her when she climbed in his lap, engulfing him in the depths of her core.

This evening, Hannibal and Frances danced once more the intimate waltz of love between the pristine sheets.

**_So, little plot twost of non consequence. The perks of alternate realities hehe._**

**_Pleeeaaaase leave a review. I am flying blind in that mess since the people who read me don't tell me if their likes/dislikes._**


	26. Chapter 26 - The beach house

_**Hey ! So this chapter comes rather soon after the last one but I've been inspired. In fact, I've just ment a gap between two pieces of the plot (some of the later chapters are written already, for too far off in the future). So I'm happy. As usual, let me know what you think ! Cheers.**_

_Mid February 2007_

Will knocked upon the French doors – a habit, rather than using the front one – several times before letting himself in. The silence in the house was deafening. Stepping in, the empath checked for anything misplaced. Where the hell was Frances?

Dread pooled at the bottom of his stomach and he fished his handgun from the holster. What if the Red Dragon had decided to take revenge on Hannibal and found her? What if the agents in charge of the Lecter's couple safety had screwed up? Hannibal's subtle pushing of his wife to the beach house had anything to do with him reducing her time at home; the psychiatrist refused to talk to her about the threat, and Will had eventually relented. If Frances knew about it, she'd go frantic and try to keep both of them safe. Who knew what would happen then? In the meantime, it was getting more and more difficult to hide the current case from her. Frances was far too perceptive for her own good.

Treading through the house, feet silent, Will eventually heard a faint noise. He stopped in the stairs, listening. Sobs. And music, polyphonic stuff. The empath covered the rest of the way, gun at the ready, until he pushed the door to the master bedroom open. The music filtered, louder. So did the sobs. A quick peek was all it took for him to dismiss a threat. For once, Frances had not even noticed him, and he hid his gun at once. It left him standing, uneasy, on the threshold. He had never seen her so distressed, so despaired. Angry at Freddie, yes. Sad, and distant, just as well. But to see Frances cry her heart out… It was plain disturbing.

Hannibal had briefed him on her activities; after the discussion with Alana, Frances had taken refuge at the beach house to read the three volumes of the Lord of the Rings. She didn't want to do it in their house, not within a ten-foot radius of her husband. "Guilt," he had said. Guilt over loving another one that him in the first place. If Hannibal was jealous, he didn't show it, pushing the empath to join Frances when he felt she needed it. Aware that Will's presence would allow her to speak and lessen the guilt rather than enhance it. Sometimes, Hannibal's understanding felt otherworldly, for he was able to step out of his wife's life only to give her space to heal. It was… not a human reaction. And yet, the best one, for Frances was now crying her pain in private, somewhere her husband couldn't loom. Her pain, though, felt so raw that it broke Will's heart.

Difficult weeks for the three of them.

At last, the young woman lifted her tear-stained face to him, and he saw her swallow at once. She hid her face in her hands, ashamed, while he took a step back.

— "I'll be by the Ocean. Take your time"

Will didn't offer to hug her; he knew that would feel awkward. Neither he nor Frances needed to touch to communicate. And she never let her guard down with him, Hannibal was the only that could reach for her, the only one that she allowed to relinquish control to. Giving her space was the best thing he could do. Coward; perhaps he was fleeing as well, feeling too inadequate to understand what exorcism Frances was performing under the guidance of those voices.

And as he settled by the sea, buttoning his jacket up to fend off the cold wind, Will's mind eventually found peace. The Red Dragon case was making him crazy, especially now they had established it used to be one of Hannibal's former patients. The angry crashing of the Ocean below helped clear his mind, and at last Frances joined him on the rocks. He didn't grant her a look, knowing her eyes would be red rimmed and puffy. His heart went out to her, and he crossed the fingers of his left hand, out of sight. Let it be known that he would do the impossible to protect them. He refused to see Frances suffer more than she already had.

At last, they settled side by side, and a long moment went without a word exchanged. Until Frances asked him how he was, and Will spoke, at length, of Alana and his dogs. Tension slowly left her body, her shoulders slumping.

— "I've brought some fish. Won't be a fancy dish, but if you want I can cook it for you."

— "You know I love it when you cook fish. It's simple and tasty. Hey, do you remember that one you made at Arthur's wedding?"

Will smiled, amused. Yes, indeed, he did now remember the huge fish they had caught and grilled over a spike just before the nuptials.

Frances found a bottle of Chardonnay in Hannibal's reserves, and they both enjoyed a fine lunch of very plain fish before the young woman settled on the piano. Will listened to her playing, noticing that there were fewer mistakes than a month ago. The pieces seemed to giver her a second wind as she eventually turned to him.

— "That song I was listening when you came in. It is called Durin's song. After a poem in…"

— "The Lord of the Rings?"

Her shoulders slumped, sadness shining in her gaze.

— "Yeah. Alana said many people were inspired by this man's works. But it just seems that the whole world actually leaked through this one"

Will's eyebrows rose into his mane of unruly hair.

— "What do you mean?"

— "I have sung that song on the road with Gimli. Heard it performed in the hall of fire…"

— "Hall of fire?"

Frances sighed; Will's notions about middle earth were the short versions of the movies. Needless to say, that they were scarce. At least, it was nice to be able to speak about elves without feeling guilty.

— "Sorry, I forgot you're not a fan. In Lord Elrond's home, in Rivendell. The hall of fire is where elves gather to hear the lores. And before the fellowship took off, on the 25th of December, no less, they sang the son of Durin in honour of the dwarves, and for Bilbo as well."

— "Wait, wait. You're losing me there."

The young woman bit her lip. Perhaps it was for the best to have someone who knew nothing about elves, dwarves and the rings. It would allow her to explain, and dwell on the notions at lengh.

— "Sorry. I went to a group of people that wanted to learn elvish. I think some of them spoke Sindarin better than I do. Anyway… I forget you don't bathe in middle earth like those people do. And you know the worst of it? They are next to no inconsistencies in Tolkien's work. A few discrepancies, at best, for everything is so detailed and so true. I don't understand how it is possible."

Will's hand scrubbed at his face, trying to understand what Frances meant. So far, he knew that Tolkien's work was thorough, but to hear that it corresponded so strongly to reality… well. Once more, the nagging feeling that Frances might have dreamt it all in her coma resurfaced. No. She wasn't insane. She had proved it when he started remembering his past life as a knight. At last, Will sighed.

— "I have no idea. The very notion of you being there in the first place…"

Frances huffed, reclining against the sofa she had settled in.

— "Yeah, I don't understand how Loki dropped me off in an alternate reality. And to think that a man wrote about a world that exists thousands of light years from now, that's weird"

— "That's… I'm sorry. I understand serial killers and the human mind, but this. It is too far-fetched for me."

A smirk bloomed upon Frances' lips; talk about horrendous crimes and Will was your guy, but speak of little grey men and the empath went cowering below his bed. Still, his never assuming mind allowed her to unburden hers.

— "So anyway. I realised I had to let go, and this song just called all those emotions. I nearly finished the third book, you know. And to read of what my friends did after my disappearance well … it takes a lot. I'm happy for them, even thrilled because I thought Sam and Frodo were dead, and I bore this guilt for years. But to know that they went on, and probably mourned me…"

— "But you returned? That other clone, she returned to middle-earth, right ?"

Frances frowned. It irked her, to be able to read every single little action her friends had taken after her "death", but to be ignorant of her own part. And to think that Eowyn and Faramir ended together! Lucky them. What about her? What about her clone? Had she found Legolas anew?

— "Yeah. If Loki didn't mess up, I did. I just hope I returned before he sailed…"

She couldn't bring herself to pronounce Legolas' name; a habit she'd taken home. It was too difficult to watch Hannibal's eyes when she said that name out loud. The way his pupils darkened and his jaw clenched. "You were not mine," he had said after his trance. Yes. She had not been his in the fifth century.

— "Hey Frances. How come you're not in the book?"

Will's sudden exclamation called her back to reality.

— "I … this is an alternate reality, remember? The Keeper of Time does not exist here. Or wasn't sent. They never needed me… Damn, the fellowship of the ring, they never needed me. And Legolas wasn't fucked up by my presence. Oh !"

Ouch, the very notion hurt. Will's clear eyes conveyed only confusion, and she sighed, lifting her hands in defeat.

— "I don't know, Will. I clearly am not informed. I just don't understand how Tolkien got his either. Dreams? Visions? He's dead now, I can never ask."

— "You should write it. Your own version. It would be fun to compare."

Frances cringed at that, vetoing the idea immediately. There was a very sound reason why she had not done so already.

— "No. I don't want Hannibal to read about me falling in love with another person."

— "He's a big boy, you know. And a psychiatrist, we all have an ex, or more"

If Hannibal could handle crazy people trying to kill him and working with the FBI, watching guts and gore, he could probably handle his wife's former love, right ? He was always so composed, what was the worst that could happen, really ? He would tut and frown, and increase his coldness factor for a few days. Nothing quite out of the ordinary for the aloof psychiatrist. Sometimes, he didn't quite understand why she coddled him so much.

— "He's not indestructible, Will"

Frances gaze was so intense that Will had to turn back to the Ocean. Sometimes, big sister was a little scary. And to think that there were three of her … well, way to get a headache!

— "Right. Erm. So you don't know what happened to those other you's."

— "No. And technically, I'm one of the clones. I guess I will never know."

Will shifted in his seat, his head cocked aside. He had trouble imagining what having a clone meant.

— "Like they probably don't know what happened to you."

— "Yeah."

A momentary silence filled the room, slightly tainted by the crashing of the angry waves over the cliff shore. How she loved that house, lost in the face of the Ocean with nothing to disturb them for miles and miles.

— "Alana thinks I'm crazy now, uh?"

Will lowered his head, a sheepish smile twisting his lips.

— "Maaaaybe? Well, she thinks you were rather drunk,"

Frances smiled; a good thing she never was. Tipsy might happen, but never drunk. The young woman couldn't possibly accept not to be in control. Much like Hannibal. But Alana didn't know that, and it probably was for the best.

— "I'm sorry you have to hide it from her. On the other hand, I doubt she would believe you…"

Will's eyes lifted to the ceiling as he slouched backwards.

— "Not a chance. Not now, at least. Maybe later"

— "Yeah. Now, let's use that bow of yours."

_March._

Amber eyes watched intently as the string was pulled and released, the arrow hitting dead centre. Sunrays lit Frances' hair on fire, her eyes squinted in concentration, posture straight, arms taut. Every bit the little warrior as Will took his place beside her. The empath notched one of his arrows –made by hand – and pulled the string. Frances watched, her gaze serious, as he released it and marked brilliantly. A bright smile was exchanged, the empath's gaze meeting hers without flinching. How incredible, when he knew Will still struggled to make eye contact with anyone other than Alana. But such was the power of his wife.

Frances' birthday had come and gone, and Hannibal was proud that he had been able to take her to the opera without her seeing the security details. And the way she'd been welcomed amongst his peers had improved greatly, especially as many curious members wanted to meet and congratulate her. Her manners and wit had quickly won the few stragglers. His present – a necklace with a Tahiti pearl –had adorned her collarbone beautifully, exposed for all to see. He knew by now that anything that reminded Frances of the sea would please her.

Twenty-five years old. She was twenty-five years old. Hannibal had trouble wrapping his mind around it, he that was twice her age. Every bit the sugar daddy he despised in others… Expect that his wife could match him in skill, and was as far from a sugar baby as a dragon was. Anyway…

Watching her take a few steps backwards, he had trouble believing her age as she aimed, and fired in rapid succession. In those moments, it was the Keeper of Time he saw. All arrows found the target, some more centred than others. Hannibal wondered, for a moment, if he should as well play the archery game. Frances had told him that Tristan was the most skilled of the knights. With bow and sword alike. Hannibal had no trouble believing it; his character had always pushed him to practise until excellence. Nothing less than perfection suited him, in this life or the previous one. Still, he didn't feel compelled to prove himself with a bow. He had enough skills, today, not to resort to such a primitive game. Surgery, psychiatry, cooking, drawing, playing the harpsichord… killing.

Will was building confidence. Given the path he had chosen to lead him – to be a healthy friend – Hannibal could only praise his wife, or curse her, for helping him in his task. Had she not been there, things would have been mightily different. He wondered, for a moment, how this relationship would have ended.

Hannibal drank the scene greedily, watching the interaction between Will and Frances. They acted like siblings, and the irony wasn't lost on him. He stood in the opposite position than on Christmas Day, with him watching and they sharing a moment of common passion. Instead of dancing in Hannibal's arms, she was mending her wounds in Will's company. And he … was alone. Ever since Mischa's death, Hannibal had resolved himself to be lonely. No family left. Perhaps he should leave now, and forever. What good could he bring to Frances' life anyway? His very presence was a blow to her well-being.

The Red Dragon was out there, a possible threat, yet, for the moment, not intent on harming him. He wondered if Dolarhyde would snap, somehow. For the moment, the serial killer seemed rather content to be the man he shaped him into. One of his greatest triumph! Where did Frances fit in here? The answer was simple; she didn't. It was the reason why he had pushed her to spend more time at the beach house, why he asked Will to join her as often as possible. He didn't trust security to keep her safe, even if they saw no reason to worry. Not yet. Fortunately, Jack had accepted to grant some men to protect her – after quite some insistence from both him and Will. Guns were too unpredictable for Frances to see anything coming. If the Red Dragon decided to attack her, she would be powerless to stop him before he put that fateful bullet in her head.

Hannibal circled the house, walking to the front door quietly to drop his cooler into the kitchen. Will and Frances' voices rose on the terrace in between loud "thuds" on the straw target. Hearing his name caused his ears to perk up, and he silently approached the French doors.

— "We'll be by your side, Frances. Me and Alana… When Hannibal isn't here anymore, we will support you."

His death, this is what Will meant. Frances snorted then.

— "Ah don't worry about that, we'll be long gone when…"

The sentence was left unfinished, and Hannibal wondered what kind of look those two were exchanging. The silence meant that Frances had just realised the enormity of her words. Had the Keeper of Time had another vision, or was it just a hunch? Needless to say, that it unsettled his heart. A loud thud indicated that one of them had resumed shooting, and Hannibal grabbed a knife from the kitchen counter, prowling through the slight opening. He was careful not to fix his gaze upon Frances' back; she always felt it. Fortunately, she was shooting right now, Will watching the target intently.

He sent the knife twirling with a flick of his wrist; the blade landed dead centre, nicking the arrow that rested but an inch away. Will and Frances whirled around, ready to strike. Hannibal couldn't help but bristle – if Dolarhyde had been there, they would both be dead by now. But when she caught his gaze, his wife's smile shone like a thousand suns. Her eyes twinkled with warmth, her expression so hopeful, so happy that he wondered how in the world he might have imagined getting away from her. The love shining in her eyes, the gentle swell of her chest, the light radiating upon her features… No, he couldn't leave her. Not now, not ever.

Frances nearly ran to him, kissing him soundly as her arms embraced him. Such a heartfelt welcome! And Hannibal left his sombre mood behind, relishing in the softness of her touch and the hopeful glint in her eyes.

The Red Dragon would have to die, for he wasn't about to let him have him.

An hour passed on the terrace until the weather took a turn for the worse and chased them inside. Hannibal unpacked the cooler in front of a smug Frances – she knew he'd come with food. Will, for his part, only took a peek at the huge piece of cheese.

— "So, Mac and cheese this evening?"

Will's casual dismissal of his cooking skill only sent a smirk to his lips.

— "Hardly. Today is home-made pasta with basilic sauce and parmiggioano Reggiano. And now, the wine !"

The psychiatrist disappeared in the cellar as Frances turned to Will.

— "What the hell is Mac and Cheese, by the way?"

The empath proceeded to explain a recipe where macaroni and poor grated cheese seemed to have a central part, causing Frances to purse her lips greatly.

— "Caro William," she sighed. "Non si puo avere salsa di pomodoro senza…"

The young woman paused in her Italian tirade there, searching for the proper word, and failing.

— "Damn. I don't remember," she smiled.

— "What did you say?" Will asked, amused by her rant.

Albeit he had to admit that she nailed the Italian accent rather nicely. Frances walked about in the kitchen, preparing utensils to start the tomato sauce.

— "That there couldn't be tomato sauce without a 'roux'."

Will laughed then, ignorant of the thing she called a "roux", especially since it was a pure French notion, hence said with a hard "r". Yet, it reminded him so much of his first dinner with Dr Lecter, and the countless times he told him the name of the dishes he'd prepared.

— "You're turning into Hannibal."

Frances froze at this, her spatula hanging mid-air. Damn, Will was right! For the second time in too little time, she realised that her behaviour matched her husband's. It wasn't good news … if his ways oozed into her, how could she keep being their moral compass? Her eyes, wide with fear, met Hannibal's. Bottle of wine in hand, the psychiatrist was eyeing her, his brown orbs thunderous. Frances forced her lips into a smile, but it was too late. The damage was done already; written plainly upon his face. Yet, not a muscle twitched, but so much hurt oozed from his eyes. She felt like yelling to the heavens! Damn it, what an idiot she was! Just a misplaced look, a tiny reaction of fear… why couldn't he be ignorant, for once ?

Hannibal passed her casually and Frances' heart missed a beat. He was furious, but turned to Will pleasantly.

— "Don't rile up a woman of Italian descent, Will."

Frances attempted to reach for her husband, hoping to mend the gash she had unwillingly torn between them.

— "What's the name of the roux, my darling?"

The psychiatrist turned to her, features pleasant, and gaze burning. His smooth voice washed over her like a death sentence.

— "Nunca idea, amore mia"

Dinner was torture. A perfect moment, when both Will and Hannibal spoke to her warmly, with delicious dishes and wine that complimented the pasta nicely. An Italian brew from Sicilia. But everything tasted like ashes because of Hannibal's seething anger. How he managed to keep it at bay, to hide it so well as a mystery to her. For he felt it keenly, it oozed from him to her so strongly that her chest hurt. The furious rain that tapped on the huge windows seemed to match the mood until it settled to light, interrupted rain. Eventually, Will left for bed – too drunk to drive home in this weather – and so did Frances and Hannibal.

Not a foot into the master bedroom, Hannibal whirled around to face her.

— "Am I so despicable to you that you would die rather than resemble me?"

His tone was cold, hurt hidden behind anger, and Frances cringed.

— "No! I wouldn't…"

— "Think your words carefully, wife."

There was such reminiscence from Tristan's anger, in this moment, to the way he spat the word "wife" that Frances' eyes misted over. The knight had called her "woman" a few times, sometimes in anger, others with affection. She wondered if the fifth century knight would have suited her more than Hannibal. Which one of them was more broken? Frances breathed in slowly, trying to loosen the ache in her chest.

— "I am sorry, Hannibal. I am afraid."

Her confession didn't abate his anger as he watched her, detached. Then, there, she was facing Hannibal the cold-blooded killer. And despite everything they had shared, she didn't doubt he could push a knife in her gut if need be. His voice was clinical, devoid of emotion as he adorned his psychiatrist persona.

— "What are you afraid of, Frances?"

The young woman bit her lip, her hand extending to him, then retracting.

— "Myself. I am the moral compass in this couple. If I lose my way, who is going to pull us back?"

Hannibal's upper lip curled in distaste, his eyes boring holes into her.

— "Will. You have asked of me to take care of him, and so I have done. He is more than able to set your compass right, should it drift away"

Defeated, Frances nodded. She couldn't face his disappointment, couldn't handle his anger anymore. The ache in her chest was becoming a gaping hole, and she left the room. Grabbing her coat, she pulled the hood over her head and made her way outside. The rain had subsided to a drizzle, and for a long moment, she found solace in the waves crashing against the cliff. The Ocean's song, strong and sturdy, caused her mind to drift away in other times, other realities where Tristan was not the broken man she loved.

Frances remained outside a long time, losing track of time, listening to the waves in the darkness. Inside, a faint light indicated that Hannibal was still awake, but the rest of the world slept.

Suddenly, her wandering mind seemed to focus on the cliff side. Her eyes opened, unseeing, taking in two silhouettes in the darkness. Hannibal! Hannibal was standing above the Ocean, bloodied and bruised, a crimson flow pooling from a gut wound. A mop of black curls clung to him, a smaller silhouette no less bloody. Will! Frances' mouth opened in a silent cry, her heart missing a beat as Will embraced Hannibal… The psychiatrist panted, then closed his eyes in pure bliss. He didn't even struggle when Will pushed them over the cliff, sending both of them tumbling into the Ocean.

Frances jumped to her feet, her heart frantic, eyes wide open. The rain was heavier now, the wind whipping her face. And … there was nothing there. No Hannibal, no Will. Had she seen the future? Another possibility? Panicked beyond measure, the young woman darted inside, terrified. The French door banged upon her entrance as she rushed inside. Hannibal lifted his head. Sad, angry, frustrated, he was sketching something at the bottom of the stairs. Frances deflated, falling on her knees in the middle of the living room. Thank God, he was alive and well!

Tears leaked from her eyes, and she wiped them angrily, her gaze returning to her husband. That man would be her end, she was sure of it. As husband and wife stared at each other, Frances breathed out and stood. Married, passionate, allies and enemies. A relationship laden with love and antagonism. She had chosen her fate, after all. Shedding her coat, the young woman took a few steps forward and extended her hand in a gesture of peace. Hannibal watched her for a moment, his eyes guarded, until he set his supplies aside. She barely had time to take a peek at the drawing, but it was easy to recognise herself. Sleeping soundly. Slowly, her husband stood, unfolding his long limbs purposefully, gracefully. Displaying his power even in this simple movement.

Stoned faced, Hannibal extended his own hand, his long fingers reaching for hers. They never touched. A flash of bright light blinded them both, and when Hannibal opened his eyes, Frances had disappeared.


	27. Chapter 27 - The Choice

_**So, this chapter is rather long and I debated cutting it but hey, at least you get to have all the answers at once. And I didn't want to leave you waiting after the last cliffhanger hehe.**_

One instant, she was about to grasp Hannibal's hand, and the other she stood on a ship, watching earth from above. Clouds swirled around it, like a cocoon of blankets for a planet that never slept entirely. The view was amazing, reminding her of the few times she'd been lost in space with her team; it never got old.

— "Greetings, Frances."

The young woman whirled around to find the culprit of her abduction; she would recognise this metallic anywhere.

— "Thor, is that you?"

The little grey creature blinked, its huge unnatural eyes entirely black.

— "It is I"

His voice echoed around the rounded walls of the spaceship and Frances almost sagged in relief, taking a step towards the creature.

— "Thank God, I'm so glad to see you."

As usual, the alien didn't lose time in pleasantries; protocol was way above the Asgard race. Language and manners were too foreign a concept.

— "So am I. We have discovered that you were experimented upon by Loki and misplaced in this reality. Do you want to contact Colonel O'Neill?"

Frances' mouth opened, and closed a few times. Until she frowned, trying to grasp all the implications of such a thing. In the back of her mind, her worry for Hannibal made her thoughts difficult to organise; he must be having a fit down there. Eventually, her mind started functioning again.

— "Is there a Colonel O'Neill in this reality?"

Thor didn't move an inch, watching her intently.

— "No. He retired. As you have seen, this reality is much different from your own."

The young woman snorted then, aware that her nervousness was about to make her hysteric.

— "Yes. Middle earth is a book here! How crazy is that?"

The little alien that was the mighty Thor was unmoved by her outburst.

— "The Valar wanted their world to be known to prevent mistakes on earth. In your home reality, we were the ones to convey such messages"

Frances' eyebrows lifted high upon her head… What? Anyhow, the urgency told her to set this matter aside and decide. Warning SG1 would mean airing her secret, she couldn't afford to put the other Frances through that.

— "O'Neill has no idea about … my travels," she stated.

— "No. And the SGC should not need to until the Keeper of Time is revealed to them."

The young woman froze for a second; she recognised a prediction when she saw one. Thor's metallic voice rang again, cornering her without even knowing what he was doing.

— "On behalf of the Asgard race, I come to apologise, and ask you whether you would like to be replaced in your original dimension."

A baseball bat connecting with her head might have been less striking. There it was, the choice, laid at her feet. And through the thousand implications of what that decision might entail, only one shone bright in her mind. The fact that, in her dimension, Tristan was dead after she had chosen to save Lancelot. But here, Hannibal was very much alive, and her husband. What if that vision came to pass? What if she could prevent it?

— "I need you to clear something for me. I just saw my friends falling from this very cliff. Dying. A vision of the future?"

Thor stood, unblinking. Given he was four feet tall, she wondered how he could gather such presence. Yet, her had always been much more imposing than his counterparts of the Asgard Council.

— "It is but an alternate future," rang his warning. "My coming perturbed the structure of this reality, and you have caught a glimpse of it."

His metallic voice was disincarnated, yet she could detect the faintest trace of sympathy. Frances breathed in relief at this revelation.

— "So it won't happen"

The Asgard nodded.

— "No. Your presence has changed the course of events, but you can still choose to return to your reality."

Frances bit her lip; she couldn't believe she was going to say that… Turning to the beauty of earth, the planet gently floating below her very feet, the young woman whispered.

— "I have attached myself here, commander. I have a new life"

The notion caused hope to swell in her chest and she stole a glance to the alien. Thor blinked, his large black eyes fixed upon her.

— "Do you mean that you wish to remain?"

Frances gave the alien a lopsided smile. She had forgotten how Asgards didn't work well with innuendos and nonverbal communication. Akin to their Viking counterparts, they liked things to be verbally expressed without any chance for misunderstanding. It probably came from the telepathy they used among themselves. After all, when you shared thoughts, you couldn't get wrong on the intention.

— "Would you allow him to come aboard? The man I tied my life to?"

The alien blinked again.

— "Why?"

She didn't expect him to comprehend her reasons; Asgard didn't have mates since they cloned themselves. But Thor should know better, for he had witnessed how attached the members of SG1 were with each other.

— "First because he must be worried sick. He is my … mate, and I disappeared right in front of him. And secondly because I wish to offer Hannibal this view once in his life, he that craves beauty above anything."

The little creature fondled with the commands of his board, then stated flatly.

— "There are two life signs down there travelling at high speed through the area. Their heart rate is high, showing signs of distress"

Blood drained from Frances' face as she understood the state of panic they must be in.

— "Take them both," she told the commander.

The little grey man stared at her, his huge black eyes boring holes into her. Assessing.

— "It is highly unusual."

His manner of speech, so ancient, should have made her laugh had her heart not increased in pace at the thought of her husband and friend searching the beach house in a frenzy. Breathless, she pleaded to the alien.

— "Please, they must be very worried about me. They already know you exist. I swear they won't tell a soul."

For a moment that bordered on eternity, Thor's dark orbs rested upon her, then back to the control panel. Decrypting the symptoms of stress of her human body, he decided to abide by her wishes. The Keeper of Time, after all, had yet to disappoint the Asgardian race.

— "Very well"

Frances nearly deflated on the spot as a huge ray of white light blinded her, the familial woosh of Asgard teleportation technology activating. Barely a second later, Will appeared on the bridge, a very drenched psychiatrist by his side. Hannibal's hair was askew, strands falling upon his chiselled cheekbones, droplets sticking to his skin. His eyes, almost wild, found hers immediately and his gaze softened as he took in her unharmed state.

Relief barely concealed, Hannibal strode forward and embraced her with a sigh. His long arms, frozen and wet, wound themselves around her body like a set of straps, pulling her against his soaked chest.

— "I feared I had lost you," he murmured into her ear.

His hands encased either side of her face as he kissed her lips gently, tasting her to ensure that she was indeed real. Her chest swelled at this unexpected show of emotions; she always feared that he would discard her, someday, when the bloodlust and need to probe the human mind became stronger than his affection for her. Evidently, it seemed that she had wound her way deeper than she thought in the psychiatrist's life.

Frances addressed Hannibal a fond smile, trying to appease his fears as well as her racing heart. As a careful mask struggled to replace his expressive features, a muffled exclamation called them both to Will.

— "Wow"

Wide blue eyes tried to make sense of the setting, flying from the window to the little grey alien standing at the commands. Hannibal lifted his eyes from his wife only to fall upon the incredible view over earth, gently revolving a few thousand kilometres below their feet. Freezing in place, the psychiatrist was struck speechless by the display of their beloved planet, clouds swirling upon its blue depths. He'd only ever seen those images in magazines, and even the best quality glazed paper illustrations didn't hold a candle to what he was seeing. That image would be forever carved in his memory palace.

Frances' gaze took in his awed features, contemplating, for the first time, Hannibal's unguarded face as he drank the most beautiful sight he'd ever laid eyes upon. The golden hues of his eyes complimented his slightly tanned skin, his cheekbones enhanced by the silvery light of the ship. His face unravelled like a work of art… So entranced by the sight that he seemed to have forgotten that they were not alone on board. Always aware of his surroundings, like a predator. It was mighty feat indeed for Hannibal to surrender to beauty so completely.

— "Greetings. Welcome on board the O'Neill," came Thor's characteristic metallic voice.

Hannibal started, body coiled in a defensive position while Frances' scoffed.

— "The O'Neill, wow! Jack must be proud"

— "Colonel O'Neill has not been informed yet."

A wide smile split her face when Will stuttered something about hallucinations. Turning to the empath, she gestured to each of them.

— "Will, Hannibal, this is supreme commander Thor of the Asgard fleet."

The alien nodded to them formally, and Hannibal felt compelled to return his bow although he towered over him by two feet at least. Very formal indeed. The psychiatrist's mind still had trouble wrapping around the fact that he stood above earth in some kind of spaceship, facing an alien. Hence his silence. Hannibal much preferred to observe rather than give away his ignorance.

Frances' surprised tone, though, sent his mind in more turmoil.

— "Wait, wait. How do you know me? I don't exist here."

The psychiatrist studied the little grey alien, taking in his diminutive size and huge dark eyes that could have featured in a nightmare. Although no irises showed, it seemed like the creature's gaze could penetrate his inner walls easily, take him apart the same way he did with his victim's bodies and his patients' mind. If not for Frances' lack of fear and familiarity, Hannibal would have felt very vulnerable in front of such a creature. The alien looked frail enough, physically. But there was unknown power here, something unattainable.

— "We are multi-dimensional beings. Only one instance of us exists in the multiverse."

Frances nodded.

— "That makes sense…"

Will suddenly bent to Hannibal, catching his attention with a befuddled look.

— "Does it?"

Hannibal's lips quirked up. Multidimensional universe and spaceship travel were not his cup of tea, but he had no doubt Frances would explain. His superior brain could take anything provided he knew the basics, how hard could quantum physics be? He would store the information, and make heads or tails of it later. And so he listened, his arm still wrapped around the young woman even if he knew his drenched shirt probably leaked through. If the alien chose to beam him down, he'd take her along this time. His whole body was falling prey to the coldness of his soaked skin, adrenalin settling at normal levels in his veins. A shiver was hardly repressed before it communicated to Frances; no distractions when on an alien ship.

— "Does it mean you protect this earth as well?" she asked the little grey alien.

The creature barely moved, long translucid fingers hovering upon the command panel.

— "There are no Goa'uld here, hence no treaty."

Understanding dawned upon Frances. This earth didn't need the Asgard around because it wasn't threatened by the system lords – the Goa'uld – of her reality. It was no wonder the Valar had decided to look after earth to replace Thor's guidance. But it also meant…

— "No Stargate."

Will's state of agitation only grew the further the conversation went, and Hannibal reached for him with a steadying hand.

— "Am I crazy?" he whispered.

And Hannibal shook his head, seeking to reassure the young man that he was not hallucinating. How far he had come, the psychiatrist mused, from trying to push Will Graham over the edge and embrace his inner darkness to reassuring him like a child. All for the sake of being accepted, being seen by another human being. And despite the fact that he knew something dark still loomed inside Will's mind, he had found another special someone. His doppelganger, the fiery lady.

And for his wife, the psychiatrist was willing to take care of Will's mental health. Curiously, his paternal instinct chose this moment to express itself.

— "I come to offer Frances' retrieval," the metallic voice echoed under the vaulted roof.

Hannibal's blood froze, his eyes darkening as his fingers tightened upon her wrist. Unblinking dark pools roamed over his body, prodding him like an experiment before turning to Will who was close to hyperventilate.

— "Retrieval?" the young man stuttered.

Frances shifted uncomfortably, stepping forward to make eye contact with the empath.

— "He means that I could get back to my own reality," she clarified.

Will blanched and Frances addressed him a smile that bordered on a grimace. She, as well, had trouble processing the information. Going home when there was another Frances already there? Before any of them could actually voice their concerns, Hannibal spoke, his smooth accented voice delivering a bombshell on her doorstep.

— "I will come with her."

Silence settled, Frances' jaw going slack as she whirled around to face him, wide chocolate eyes set upon his face. Hannibal's lips quirked imperceptibly as thoughts ran a hundred miles an hour in her mind.

Her husband was too intelligent to ignore that he would leave everything behind. His legacy, his money, his status. China plates, clothes, houses, diplomas, existence … everything. All of them neatly stored away in his memory palace. But then again, it would offer him a blank status to start over, without anyone hunting the Chesapeake Ripper or Il Mostro di Firenze. After all, he had contingency plans to escape to Italy with just a suitcase.

The only real issue…

— "But the Keeper of Time is still there. My world doesn't need me anymore."

What could have been a heartbreaking moment was shattered by the Asgard's even tone.

— "Yes. The prime Frances still wears the mantle. She will be solicited soon."

If the prediction didn't faze the young woman – Asgards had a way with space and time – Will and Hannibal shared a curious look before the empath gripped his head.

— "Wait, if Frances was to return to her reality, wouldn't that cause a … reality crash or something?"

The young woman gave Will a sad smile.

— "Entropic cascade failure, Will. And no"

Barbaric words, for a different reality. Hannibal shifted then, realising how much of Frances' life he had not cared to discover. There were so many questions to ask… For now, he was trying to store the sheer amount of information that Thor was carelessly throwing their way as if it was as simple as counting from one to ten.

— "Entropic cascade failure happens when two instances of the same person exist in the same reality. Frances being a clone had been duplicated, and so was her mind at one point in time. They now evolve independently from each other."

Three clones. The keeper of Time, his wife and … one in middle earth. Frances, wide eyes told him she shared his reasoning; the psychiatrist's heart constricted when the next question stumbled from her lips.

— "Thor. Do you … do you know if the first clone found him? Did she find him before he sailed?"

The grey alien blinked, his great eyes fixed upon Frances by his side. Hannibal has to refrain a shudder – coldness, surely, for it couldn't be fear – when his metallic voice echoed against the curved walls of the Asgard ship.

— "Yes, Princess Melenwë has successfully bonded with the Prince of Greenwood the Great."

Frances echoed Hannibal's thoughts.

— "Princess Melenwë?"

— "Your cloned self chose to adopt a new name upon her arrival on Arda," the alien explained.

A smile quirked Frances' rosy lips, her eyes lost in the contemplation of earth as she whispered incredulously.

— "Beloved"

— "Yes, my beautiful?"

The young woman blinked, her eyes focusing on the psychiatrist by her side.

— "This is what 'Melenwë' means: beloved daughter of the Valar."

Hannibal's eyes twinkled slightly, conveying that she, as well, was beloved in their midst. Beside them, Will shook his wild curls.

— "So you really speak elvish…"

Frances smirked then; she knew what Will meant. That she spoke elvish yes, but also that her clone story was true, and that there was another her somewhere in middle earth, among people that had been written by Tolkien. That elves, dwarves, the Valar and Sauron existed. And in truth, Will would have been a cute hobbit; his hairstyle resembled so much Frodo's at times. Oblivious to the quantity of things left unsaid, Thor addressed Frances with his even voice. Yet, Hannibal was pretty sure that reverence shone in his dark eyes.

— "It is fitting. The Valar themselves chose this name for her."

A friendly hand came to rest upon her wrist, and Frances turned to Will, his clear blue eyes fixed upon her face.

— "There are people who love you here as well. We are not Gods, but we can be your family."

And for once, Will didn't shy away from the contact. Frances' stomach plummeted at his words, taking in the ugly truth. If she got back, she wouldn't be able to reach for her parents, nor her friends for no one knew she had been cloned. Home, without being home? A bleak perspective indeed. So it was without further hesitation that she turned to Thor, her features resolved.

— "I will remain in this reality."

The creature inclined its huge head once, betraying no emotion.

— "You are no longer the Keeper of Time, but you are a protector still. You have a purpose. Do not forget it."

The alien's words, a few truths uttered with neither kindness not reprimand, struck home. For ever since she had awoken in this strange reality, the young woman knew she wouldn't last long. Such was the balance of the universe; she wasn't born here, wasn't meant to walk the surface of this particular earth. A stray soul misplaced. Yet, she had a part to play before the end, and should therefore push away her willingness to die to replace it with a sense of purpose. Frances nodded her thanks, feeling the weight of Hannibal's long fingers encasing her own. Colder than usual. He was her timestamp. As long as she could keep him in check, life would go on for both of them. By making him her husband, she had become the protector.

— "Thank you, Supreme Commander, for taking that precious time to find me."

The creature bowed his head in a move so reminiscent of Teal'c that tears tickled her eyes.

— "It has taken longer than planned due do difficult circumstances."

A tremor ran up her spine, her stiffening noticed by the tall man by her side who sent her a speculative look. There was a strange sense of relief to know that she was leaving all this behind. Goa'uld and threats from the stars. Still, she had to ask.

— "Replicators?"

Thor's tiny nod was her response.

— "Amongst many things, yes. We are at war. But Loki's actions brought you here, and we owed it to you to offer the choice."

Such was the high sense of honour of the Asgard race. Beside her, Will seemed totally oblivious to the conversation as he wandered, eyes wide, around the vessel. Soaking information, probably. Hannibal's keen eyes navigated between the empath, his wife and the grey creature, fascinated by the alien whose psyche seemed so radically different from human's.

— "I wish you good luck in this war, and I have no doubt that the SGC will help."

— "I am on my way to ask for Samantha Carter."

Frances deflated, realising that she would never guard her friends' back. Hoping that the Keeper of Time would do it in her stead.

— "Will you watch over them for me?"

— "I always have, and will do again, Lady Frances. You know I keep O'Neill out of trouble."

A genuine smile brightened her face, sending Hannibal into countless rounds of thinking. She didn't talk much about those friends, for they were dead to her now. Maybe he could help her revisit those memories to alleviate the pain; she seemed genuinely worried about them.

Frances took a few steps forward, approaching the alien who watched her steadily. The psychiatrist stiffened, biting his tongue to refrain from following; his tall frame would, without any doubt, be interpreted as a threat. Her amount of trust threw his mind in turmoil as she knelt, like a knight before a liege, but head held high. Not two feet away, Thor, Supreme commander of the Asgard fleet, faced the young woman solemnly. Eye to eye. Just a touch away, and the alien could … anything.

Hannibal's blood started to boil; he knew, right now, that Frances was vulnerable and yet showed no fear. The amount of things that could happen put his imagination to shame. Therefore, the former surgeon called onto his legendary phlegm and settled on watching while his insides simmered with animalistic fear. She was his mate now. His to protect. "Mine!"

Will, on the other hand, had more trouble controlling himself. The psychiatrist reached for him before he could intervene, feeling the young man shaking nervously beside him. For an empath, meeting an alien species was probably akin to taking LSD. Frances smiled at the alien, bowing her head slightly in a sign of deference, hoping to convey her gratitude.

— "Goodbye, Thor. I will miss you."

Hannibal couldn't help the smile that bloomed on his face as the creature blinked at her familiarity, his translucid fingers lifting to reproduce a salute. Even if the alien couldn't smile, there was a fondness in his tone as he bid her adieu with as much class as a King.

— "Goodbye, Lady Frances, former Keeper of Time, and protector of this world"

The redhead nodded, then stood, turning to them with shining eyes. This renouncement sealed her fate, attaching it to him more permanently than the ring on her finger. And Hannibal was grateful. Behind them, earth continued its never-ending spin, light and dark struggling to prevail upon its beautiful surface. As Frances offered both of her hands, one for him, and one to Will, she angled her head backwards to address the alien.

— "Can you give us a minute, Thor? I want to carve this image in my mind."

— "I will give you three earth minutes before I beam you down to the surface."

— "Thank you, Supreme Commander."

The little grey alien disappeared in a flash of bright light without warning, leaving the three of them on the bridge. As one, they turned to earth, Frances standing between them. With a great sigh, she nestled against Hannibal's side, unwilling to meet his gaze as tears overflowed her eyes and ran down her cheeks. And despite the fact that he knew how difficult this decision had been, the psychiatrist left her be, allowing her to grieve in the privacy of her thoughts. His long – and soaked – arm slid over her shoulder to hold her close; she would never realise the extend of his gratitude for her choice. Her other hand was squeezed by Will, and for once, he had not a care in the world.

Below them, earth displayed its mighty colours, the eastern coast already plunged in darkness while California got gradually drowned by the receding light. There was so much to see, and so little time. The way the light diffused at the poles, keeping the northern one in eternal night while Antarctica battled its latest storm. The gradual change of colours in the Oceans, and blotches of light that delimited the grandest cities of the continent.

But most of all, the most extraordinary feat was that they shared this beauty. Like a family. The reunion of souls ripped apart fifteen hundred years ago, reunited in a blissful moment of contemplation. And this, Hannibal knew that they would never forget.

The flash of blue light brought them down into the living room, away from the rain that had soaked Hannibal from head to toe. For a while, the two men stood staring at Frances, speechless, until she set her hand on her husband's soaked shirt.

— "Go and have a hot shower, mon amour. I'll take care of the house."

The psychiatrist nodded, his mind still reeling from the numerous implications of what just transpired. An alien, a woman from another dimension, and her refusal to leave… As Hannibal climbed the stairs, Frances set to lock the front door and close the electric blinds, moving around like a busy bee to set things right before the night.

— "So this was true…", Will eventually called from the bottom of the stairs.

— "Did you doubt me?" she quipped back.

Frances wasn't put out by his admission. Since Will had memories of his past life, he had integrated the fact. But aliens, Stargates, alternate realities and clones was a foreign concept, and seeing it up close could only rattle him. Still, the empath sent her a sheepish smile.

— "Well … the clone part was the most difficult to believe I admit."

— "I get it. If I had not travelled through the Stargate myself, and would have had a hard time believing it. And I've seen some weirds things in Interpol, believe me"

Will shook his dark curls and France mused that she really should talk to him about a haircut. Well, Alana would eventually take care of it. As the last blind closed, Frances turned tail and headed for the stairs. Hannibal's drawing lay there, discarded on site, and she picked it up to hold it close to her heart. Will didn't ask to see it, his mind still running from the encounter with supreme commander Thor. Then he snorted, and Frances sent him an inquisitive look.

— "I'll fall asleep thinking about what Freddie Lounds will never know. She would have had a field day with this."

— "What about Alana?"

Will pursed his lips and disappeared in the shadows, leaving a bewildered Frances behind. How sad it was that a great part of his life couldn't be shared to his beloved? Perhaps they ought to do something about it, but how could they prove Alana that they weren't all nut cases? And what part should they share? Would it abate the woman's fears, or feed them? Given Hannibal's first reaction to this mess … phew. Perhaps Alana would accept her mentor's word easier than hers and Will?

Frances climbed the stairs silently, popping into the master bedroom and closing the door behind her. Then she took a peek at the unfinished drawing, admiring the precision of Hannibal's pencil. There was love and admiration in those lines; she looked so peaceful, sleeping in the tangle of sheets. Even angry with her, he managed to capture her likeness so gently. An artist at heart.

Hannibal exited the bathroom, stark naked, wiping his face with the towel. Frances' eyes lit up, her brain freezing – yelling "mate! é" – as she took him his magnificent body. For a fifty-year-old man, he was so incredibly handsome. The psychiatrist eventually dropped the towel aside, his lips quirking at the dazed look on his wife's face. Then he saw the drawing in her hands.

— "I guess it is the first time you see yourself sleeping," he stated.

And for a man who stood naked, exposed to her scrutiny, he certainly seemed rather serious. Frances smiled, contemplating the picture with fondness.

— "My hair never looks so tame in the morning."

The psychiatrist approached, stopping right behind her to look over her shoulder. And if his eyes roamed the dark lines, the intensity of his presence seeped through Frances' frame. She had to bit her lip to prevent from lying back.

— "Yes, it does, that day in particular."

The young woman shuddered, realising how cold she was compared to him. Hannibal snaked a warm hand around her waist, his long fingers splaying on her lower belly as his nose buried in her hair.

— "Is it a picture of your memory palace?" she asked, breathless.

A kiss landed upon her temple.

— "Yes. Although, I admit, I have taken a little artistic licence."

Frances chuckled then, and, setting aside the drawing on the desk, turned around to circle Hannibal's form with her arms. His arms surrounded her, pulling her against his broad chest. She sighed. There, stuck against his still damp skin, basking in his warmth, she was exactly where she wanted to be. The choice to stay didn't seem so terrible now.

— "Thank you, my beautiful," Hannibal whispered in her ear.

The young woman pulled away, giving her husband an interrogative look.

— "For choosing to stay."

A shadow passed in her gaze, and Hannibal tucked a loose strand behind her ear.

— "It was the only rational choice. And I thank you for considering coming with me."

He nodded.

— "There would have been nothing left for you there."

— "Nothing for you as well," she retorted.

Hannibal watched her intently.

— "I know. Except for us. Together, we can do anything my beautiful."

Frances nodded, dragging Hannibal into bed.

— "Honestly, I am glad to live in a world where the Goa'ulds are not plotting to overtake earth at every turn. Or where replicators are not an item."

The psychiatrist lifted an eyebrow.

— "What are those? The supreme commander seemed rather upset about it."

— "Spider machines that absorb Asgard technology. They destroy planets. Too many legs. Bad."

Hannibal hummed, his long fingers grabbing her t-shirt to pull it over her head. And despite the wonderful feeling that his hands left behind, Frances' throat closed as she took in the consequences of her choice.

— "So you see. It was a selfish decision after all."

Hannibal watched her intently, choosing to remain silent for a moment as he unclasped her bra, and pulled the skirt away from her body. Then he gathered Frances in his arms, and covered them both with sheet and comforter.

— "You don't have the potential for selfishness, Frances," he eventually said.

The young woman hummed in disagreement.

— "We all have"

Hannibal caressed her hair thoughtfully.

— "Yes, my beautiful, but you don't listen to the urges. This is why they choose you, those Valar of yours. Even when your heart was at stake on the battlefield you choose to save Lancelot."

Frances' heart constricted at the painful memory of seeing Tristan hacked to pieces by the Saxon leader. Her hold tightened and she buried her nose into Hannibal's chest as he went on.

— "You chose to not to let someone be killed. Let alone kill someone"

The young woman lifted her head, searching for her husband's intense gaze.

— "I killed for you."

The ghost of a smile passed over his lips; the memory embedded deep in his palace. The sight of Frances going for the kill blow, her wrath unleashed, her figure as terrible as the goddess of war herself.

— "To defend. You are a protector, the perfect opposite of me."

There was nothing to add as Hannibal stated the plain truth. That he was a killer, for selfish reasons, and accepted it. And yet, as Frances lay in his arms, feeling safe as she drifted to sleep.

_**Last time seeing Thor and aliens and stargate stuff, the next chapter will be about something really different. I'm rather proud of this one, since it closes the possibility for Frances to get back home. I hope you enjoyed it.**_


	28. Chapter 28 - The Great Red Dragon

**_Hey, I've twisted the scenario a little, mixing scenes from season 2 and 3 to keep the fantastic swimming pool scene but arrange it regarding all the stuff that didn't happen because of Frances' arrival. Also… it is horrible but the Red Dragon is called Francis Dolarhyde. See my point ? Francis and Frances, ugh. I've tried to make it clear but you'll have to read carefully to avoid confusion between the big bag ugly and my OC._**

**_I've been asked for more... there is it. Anyway, I hope you're ready for a little action. This is going to rock._**

France was driving. Faster than usual which was a feat according to Will. Despite her decent level of skill, he always grabbed the top handle whenever she was on the wheel, something about her energetic driving. Unfortunately, she had not seen him for a while. 'Busy', 'in class', 'on a case', or 'exhausted' were the many pretexts he had found to skip their weekly lunch for a month now.

But she knew better. Now.

Will had been working on the case they called 'the tooth fairy' at first, and had become 'the red dragon' now. A psychopath who killed families. A psychopath who, incidentally, had called Freddie Lounds' attention… A man who had been Hannibal's patient years ago… And none of those two idiots had judged that she should know about it.

Hannibal's doing, no doubt, especially since Will avoided her. Frances took a harsh turn, cutting the line of upcoming cars who protested loudly. Teeth grinding against each other, she was trying hard not to panic. Her anger at being kept in the dark flooded her body with adrenalin; if Hannibal was still in one piece, she would kick his ass from Monday to Sunday ! For the moment, thought, she could only speed up on the motorway, intent on closing the distance from ice rink to swimming pool in less than twenty minutes.

Her mind revisited that dreadful moment, half an hour earlier, when one of her colleagues had approached her with a disapproving frown.

— _"__Look", she tutted. "After attacking you, she's now rambling about your husband. She's a despicable woman, that Miss Lounds"_

_Frances' blood run cold, reading about Hannibal's involvement in treating Francis Dolarhyde, and failing. Freddie had accused him of bringing forth the killer's instinct in the Red Dragon, and to now work with the FBI to catch him to atone for his mistake._

— _"__Don't take things to heart, dear."_

_Frances searched for the date. Posted today. Her face paled. Contrary to her colleagues who had gone back to arabesques, she knew of Hannibal's nature. Freddie was probably right, and might have launched the Red Dragon upon her husband with her article. Anger rose like a tide. Anger against Freddie for exposing Hannibal, against her husband for keeping the secret, and against Will for avoiding her. All of them would pay !_

_Frances breathed in slowly, thanking the colleague who had, unwillingly, triggered the chain reaction in her mind. The urge to pack her things and run back to Hannibal was strong. What would he say if she burst into the swimming pool now, breaking the routine ? Simple and efficient, she usually dropped him off and picked him upon her way back from skating class. It left him an hour and a half to soak into the water and perform his laps while she danced her worries away on the ice. It felt good, to glide upon the rink before the closing of the season._

As she drove, she knew what Hannibal would probably say about her panic. 'There is nothing to fear from Francis Dolarhyde. I made him who he is today.' But despite the lingering bitterness of such a fact, Frances wasn't convinced. She parked not ten feet from the swimming pool entrance; the sun had set already, and the neighbourhood was quiet.

A quick call to Hannibal, unanswered, rose the alarm tenfold. If he was still swimming, he wouldn't answer her call anyway. And at this hour, she knew it would be deserted; Hannibal enjoyed doing his laps in peace. Sliding from the driver's seat, she hurried to the building entrance. Her inner sense of danger spiked when she found the sign 'closed' on the door. It was, fortunately, easily opened for only the bottom lock was engaged. A little leverage was all it took for Frances to prowl into the dimly lit building.

At the front desk, the receptionist seemed asleep, her head resting upon her arms. A dire mistake… for her blood pooled from her skull to the floor in a large puddle. Dead. Frances tensed and picked up her phone. Damn her for not getting this gun permit already ! Never the tune had seemed so long as she waited. Then, at last, Will picked up the line.

— "Will", she whispered. "Take Jack and come quick to the swimming pool on Glen Ave. Yes, 131. The receptionist is dead and Hannibal doesn't pick up"

The empath sprung into action on the other side of the line, and she cut the communication before he could lecture her about staying where she was. Abandoning her handbag in the entrance, the young woman trod gently through the corridors, passing the ladies locker room like a shadow. Nothing. Not a noise, neither the barest shuffle of clothes. Deserted. Slowly, the young woman progressed in silence, keeping all senses alert and following a pattern she had been taught in Interpol… Before she got dumped in another dimension, that is. She kept to walls and openings, passing the door that led to the ladies' showers like a ninja. Her fingers grasped the panel gently, pulling the door close behind her without a noise. Then she heard a voice, declaiming its piece like an actor at theatre. A low, rumble, laden with menace. A grating sound, smugness and anger laced within.

Great, a big bad.

Frances took a few more steps, balancing herself on the inch wide tile that bordered the wading pool where people were supposed to rince their feet before getting to the pool area. She didn't want her feet to get wet, nor risking making splashing noises. Slowly, carefully, she bypassed it while clinging to the wall. The voice went on, speaking only once in a while to another who couldn't, or didn't respond expect for a few grunts here and there.

Her body turned to ice; she smelt it before she even saw it. Blood, fresh blood and its distinctive iron and copper fragrance. Frances carefully peeked over the corner to distinguish the scene. Her heart stopped as she swallowed an anguished cry, yet she couldn't prevent a whimper to pass her lips and tears to run down her face. Pure, cold dread paralysed her, taking hold of her body and preventing her from breathing. A panic attack ! Clenching her hands to her chest to ease the pain, Frances grit her teeth tightly. It couldn't be ! Her hands trembled as she wiped her brow from the sweat that gathered at her hairline. She couldn't loose him now… blood, there was so much blood already.

Hannibal was strapped to a rod, as if crucified, his toned body exposed as he stood in his swimsuit. A rope tightened around his neck, his arms stuck to the wooden pole with heavy tape, he stood in equilibrium over a bucket that threatened to topple over. But despite the urgency of this situation – his feet struggled to keep him upright - it was nothing compared to the crimson river that flooded the tiles. For his forearms were slit from wrist to mid length; a deep cut that allowed his blood to flow freely out of his body, painting the stairs upon which he had been erected like a painting. Probably an ironic tribute to the Chesapeake Ripper. A gruesome sight that send her in fits of apoplexy.

Frances bit her cheek to refrain from dashing out like a madwoman. She needed to calm down and think. If that man, the Red Dragon as he called himself, had been able to overpower Hannibal, she would need all her wits to beat him. Pulling back, she rested her back upon the wall. She took one slow, deep breath, then another. Little by little, her brain started working anew, overpowering the crippling fear. Then determination set in. Hannibal would live to see another day even if she died to ensure it.

Despite the pain pulsating in his wrists and the chaffing of the cord, Hannibal had not given up yet. Life, as it was, was still of interest, partially because of the young woman who had insufflated a new meaning to his days.

Still, the situation was dire. Needless to say that pain and blood loss were taking their toll. Soon, very soon, he would pass out and die without a ripple. The great Chesapeake Ripper vanquished by a man with a tranquiliser gun. An insane criminal Dr Lecter had forged himself; some would claim Karma was a bitch, other that he had it coming. And for once, Hannibal almost regretted pushing the boy over the edge. What he had become, an insanely strong and deranged man, would deprive his beloved wife from the husband she so cherished. For once, yes, for once, Hannibal felt guilty of leaving her behind. He accepted it now. When Frances would return from her ice skating classes to pick him up, she would find his body drained and hanging from the ceiling by a coarse rope. How would she handle loosing him a second time ?

Hopefully, the Red Dragon would leave before she came. He still had half an hour left after all. Perhaps he should kick the bucket himself and decide to put a term to this mise en scène. Albeit he had to applaud his former patient; dying like Jesus Christ on the cross was ironic when he had worked so hard to impersonate the devil. Equally charming and corrupting, Hannibal had pushed several of his patients to embrace their darker side, inch by inch, the result of many hours of pushing, prodding and coaxing with unorthodox methods. The Red Dragon was such a man; needless to say that his retribution for Hannibal's betrayal – working for the FBI to catch him – would have been better appreciated if not dealt upon his body. But Dr Lecter could still appreciate the attention, and the spectacular tableau. Yes. Even as he faced death, Hannibal wasn't impervious to beauty.

The pain pulsated in his whole arms now, the sensation keeping him awake while his head started to lol. It wouldn't be long, and the Red Dragon, aka Francis Dolarhyde, gently watched him fade away. But shadows that didn't belong in the dimly lit room called for his attention. Hannibal's blood froze, recognizing a familiar trail of fire sticking to the back of the room. She was here. She was going to die… for him. The exact opposite of Badon Hill, when he had died to protect her. And if he could have accepted it – welcomed it – nary three months before, Hannibal realized that he didn't want to bury his wife. Not yet, not so soon after he had made her his. If she died one day, it would be by his hand in his loving arms. Out of the corner of his eye, Hannibal followed Frances, careful to continue panting and wobbling on the bucket to refrain from calling attention. Not that it was difficult. The cord chafed his skin raw, the tape burning the fragile skin of his inners arms as he faltered. He refused to lock gaze with Frances as she progressed, her bare feet silent, to the bench where the gun rested. Still, he couldn't miss the horrified expression that marred her features. If she survived… her mind would be scarred for life. Yet, she kept going, silent as a cat. So strong, so determined… so stupid, to throw herself at the Red Dragon who would break soon enough.

Hannibal rasped, trying to keep Dolarhyde's attention. Unfortunately, the Red Dragon was an instinctive creature, almost mystical; he sensed her right away.

Hannibal could only watch, powerless, as Francis turned around at the very same moment his wife took hold of the gun. The man lunged and she barely had time to aim. She should have fled, his insane wife, at seeing such a beast coming for her. Why didn't she, when her survival instincts screamed at her to run ? But she stood her ground and pulled the trigger.

An inhuman cry echoed in the poolhouse as the bullet lodged in his attacker's shoulder but he continued his course, more enraged than a wounded boar. The madman slammed into Frances, sending her flying on the hard tiles while the gun slid the other way. A whimper told him she was in pain, a simple sound that tore his heart as she rolled backwards. But the Red Dragon was stronger, if not faster; hopefully the bullet in his shoulder would give her a chance. In a moment, he was upon her, his fist colliding with the side of her face. Frances tumbled backwards; eyes glazed over at the strength of the blow.

Hannibal struggled to keep stable, to keep eye contact with the fight, hoping to support her with all his might. If Frances didn't get her bearings, Dolarhyde would beat her to death before his very eyes. For the first time in his life, Hannibal felt the need to recoil from this violence rather than relish in it. Yet, he didn't relent to the cowardice to close his eyes. If she was to die for him, he would honour his wife by supporting her to her last breath, be it only with his look. Already, the Red Dragon was advancing.

— "No !", Hannibal cried, nearly loosing his balance.

— "Don't!", she screamed back at him with urgency.

She was right. There was nothing he could do but concentrate to stay alive. To watch this uneven fight, though, was unbearable. But his kitten wasn't ready to relent. Her analysis done now, the bruise already darkening on the side of her face as the Red Dragon decided to taunt her.

— "Came to save this old scheming man ? He made me who I am, he's not worth it"

Frances sniffed, wiping blood from her nose.

— "He's my man. Back off", she growled.

Had Hannibal not been on the verge of passing out, he would have smirked at her possessive streak. Perhaps Franklin had been right, perhaps the kitten was a panther after all. And hope bloomed in his chest; his wife was strong and efficient. Even more so than he was. With her training, she might very well triumph and beat Dolarhyde.

The Red Dragon actually laughed at her words; Frances launched her attack then and Hannibal internally rejoiced. Intelligent woman, using the moment of distraction to her advantage. Catching Francis off guard, she landed a hard kick to his ribs, and an elbow in his face, cracking the side of his jaw. Any man would have howled in pain and doubled over such was the strength of her attack. Francis didn't. His resistance took her by surprise, and she hesitated a second too long before trying to swipe as his leg. He retaliated with the power of an insane beast, chasing her foot away while his fist caught her plexus. She backpedaled with a woof and Francis grabbed one of her arms roughly.

Frances fell to her knees with a pained cry until his fingers enclosed a fistful of her hair.

— "Bye bye, little girl", he told her.

Then he shoved her in the pool with flourish. Frances disappeared underwater with a splash. Second passed before Hannibal caught the faint sound of her head breaking the surface with relief; she was alive still. But then, the Red Dragon closed the distance to wave his gun in front of his own face, smirking at his crucified prisoner. Panic suddenly flooded Hannibal's body, the adrenalin kicking in as he gathered his voice to shout.

— "Go ! Go !"

For the first time in ages, Hannibal lost all rationality. For he knew, deep down, that she couldn't escape the pool alive. Not when Dolarhyde was already aiming. The soft sound of ripples told him Frances had dived. Several gunshots echoed, deafening upon the sensitive ears of his fragilized body. Hannibal trembled upon the casket, his feet loosing the battle as dumbness started to overcome his muscles. Adrenalin was the only thing keeping him alive.

Dolarhyde swore then; his gun wasn't powerful enough to penetrate below the few standard feet. With the low lights in the pool, Frances might very well escape his notice for a short while. But Hannibal was also privy to her low performance in breath-holding; at some point, she would have to emerge again. In thirty seconds, forty-five at best… The clock was ticking. In his mind, Hannibal started counting. Powerless… The longest seconds of his fifty years of life.

The Red Dragon circled the pool, a smirk upon his face, his eyes returning, every so often, to his prisoner. Hannibal gave him his most heartfelt glare, knowing it was useless. Thirty seconds. His blood still ran freely, less strongly now that his pressure was rapidly crashing down. Not quickly enough; he would take more than ten seconds for him to pass out. He would have to witness her death. Perhaps… perhaps he could kick the bucket, and hang himself to distract him. Would it save her ? For another thirty seconds… and then. She would follow him in death, murdered in water. Her element after all.

There. The barest of ripples moved over the pool as she emerged, taking a long deep breath before plunging back. Hannibal didn't see her; his heart was beating so hard that it might have jumped from his chest. No gunshot. Where was she ? Suddenly, Dolarhyde swore, ripping the metallic ladder from its hinges in a fit of rage. So she had used the protection of the ladder to take her first breath, mimicking its shadow to remain unnoticed. Despite his forces leaving him, Hannibal couldn't repress the smirk that bloomed upon his face. His wife was as sneaky, as cunning as he was.

But the countdown started anew, and with it, the fear that it might very well be her last breath. Literally. 40… 39… 38…37… The Red Dragon stood, gun aimed at the pool, his eyes roaming the full expense of the water. Her best shot would have been to appear at his legs and pull him in, but the man had forseen it and placed himself right above the spot of underwater light. At this distance, the bullet couldn't miss. The closest she emerged to him, the more likely she would die. 20… 19… Hannibal wobbled, his vision getting darker by the minute, his breath shortening. His own blood drew a river at his feet, a crimson tide, so beautiful. Perhaps they were destined to die together this time although he would have preferred her arms around him. 7 … 6…

Time was up. A great splash echoed in the swimming pool, her legs kicking out to create noise and volume. Francis aimed at the spot as her head emerged further away to take a breath. Three shots and a heartbreaking cry of pain. Hers. Red blood tainting the swimming pool as Frances sunk underwater. Hannibal's heart skipped a beat. Fatally wounded or not, she was probably going to pass out. Then, if the gunshot had not killed her yet, she would drown. Perhaps now was time to say goodbye and surrender to death. Perhaps they would find each other again. Hannibal closed his eyes in defeat.

The strain of his windpipe being crushed by his own weight jolted him up and his body twitched. The bucket had rolled out of reach; Hannibal was truly and thoroughly hanged. Survival instinct kicked in, his arms struggling to reach his constricted neck. But both limbs were hopelessly strapped, and Hannibal could only sway as the pressure increased, air becoming scarce. His burning lungs insulted him profusely, but he couldn't shrug to respond – not my fault. How irrational his thoughts as he died, the lack of oxygen registering in his brain. Then gunshots echoed, deafening, as several voices yelled at the same time. The thump of a body falling to the tiled floor, and hands hoisted him up, relieving the pressure upon his sore throat as a booming voice scorched his sensitive ears.

— "Call 911 ! Alana !"

Powerful and angered, he knew this voice. Jack. It was Jack's sturdy body that kept him aloft in an awkward position, one of his hands trying to loosen the death grip of the cord around his neck while the other held him fast upon his rounded shoulder. As oxygen started flowing his brain anew, Hannibal's body twitched in pain and panic. Frances ! She was still down there in the pool. Struggling like a mad man to open his eyes, Hannibal caught sight of a dark mop of hair in the distance.

— "Will !" he rasped.

— "Where is Frances ?", the empath shouted as he jogged up to him.

Hannibal struggled to form consistent sentences and kicked himself for his weakness. How powerless he was, the esteemed psychiatrist, unable to help his wife buried below three meters of water! The great Hannibal Lecter defeated, hung over a shoulder like a piece of meat.

— "Stay still, Dr Lecter, I got you"

Of course Jack would assume he was rambling about his wife, like a man about to die. But Will knew better; he knew how Frances would jump to his rescue and possibly die in the process. She had been the one to call him, she must be somewhere ! Hannibal's throat was so sore, his body shaking from the strain as he summoned his forces to answer.

— "The pool !"

Never had his voice felt to foreign to his own ears but Will was on the move instantly. Hannibal sagged, his vision darkening by the second. He heard the splash followed by an uneasy silence. More than five seconds already… until the surface broke again and Will yelled.

— "I got her ! Alana, help me"

And then, the most beautiful sound in the world graced his ears. Frances' cough, and the subsequent desperate intake of breath mingled with a wail of agony as they shuffled to extract her from the pool. Alive ! She was alive ! Hannibal would have cried in relief. Lucky, stupid, stubborn woman ! She had fooled the Red Dragon brilliantly and fought like a berserker. Now, she was probably paying the price of her wound if he believed the pained whimpers that reached his ears. He just wished he could see where the bullet had torn her lovely flesh, if only to assess her chances.

For a moment, Will tried to calm her down as she thrashed around.

— "Frances, it's me. It's Will, you are going to be allright."

Summoning his last forces, Hannibal opened his eyes anew. Propped awkwardly against Jack's shoulder – damn the man was strong, he was glad he never got to fight him - he could barely distinguish her form sprawled against Will. Then the empath handed something to Alana, a pocket knife, and the young psychiatrist filled his vision as she walked up to him. Hannibal grunted; he wanted to scream at her to move aside so he could assess Frances's state, but it was useless. His body was shaking uncontrollably, so much that he had to grit his teeth to refrain from biting his tongue. Will's voice was hesitant, worry and panic rising the longer the paramedics lingered as Alana worked at freeing his neck and arms from their bonds. The rod clattered on the tiles, his arms free at last but he had no control, all muscles limp from the strain. Jack laid him on the ground like a rag doll, cushioning his head with a towel and laying a jacket upon his shaking form. Needless to say that Hannibal recognized the symptoms of shock quite easily… the coldness though… Blood loss. Death.

Will's protest fell on deaf ears as Frances yelled in pain, and despite the agony it caused her, Hannibal was glad to see her progress towards him. A wounded panther, limping so furiously that Will gave up trying to restrain her and picked her up to bring her by his side. Apparently, the bullet had lodged in her calf. Good; she would live. Her eyes didn't leave his, slightly glazed over by the pain. She, too, was in shock. Her plastered hair and clothes should have been pitiful upon her slender frame – she had yet to put more meat on her bones – but the sight of his wife, alive, was enough to send his mind in turmoil. Will set her on the ground beside him, and her arms latched around his wrists at once. Hannibal winced; the wounds were tender but it still bled.

— "How much blood did you loose?", she asked, struggling to remain upright.

Will came to support her, hands upon her back as she swayed. Hannibal had issues focusing, his eyes looking for hers in reassurance. If he was to die, let him gaze one last time upon her loving features.

— "How much ?", she repeated, panic barely contained.

The psychiatrist didn't respond. He was too tired to do so. But his stubborn woman wouldn't let go of his wrists, keeping whatever blood was left from flowing out. Once or twice, she threatened to topple over but held fast, her warm hazel eyes locked with his. On his other side, Hannibal felt Will's hands replacing Frances.

— "Lay down, I'll do it"

How ironic, after the day where he, Hannibal, had replaced Will' shaking hands upon Abigail's neck as she bled out. An injury that had happened by his fault, for he had been the man warning the killer of their coming. To push Will to the edge, just like the boy that became the Red Dragon.

What goes around comes around.

Today, his little game might very well cost his life. And Will was there, more confident than this fated day, as he tried to keep him from bleeding out. Frances nodded to Will, awkwardly laying down on the tiled floor while Alana wrapped her in another towel. The sounds of wailing sirens started to echo in the distance, and Hannibal received with delight the slight kiss Frances bestowed upon his lips. She smelt of chlorine and blood; so wrong upon her skin that usually exuded her sweet womanly fragrance. Keeping his other wrist in her hand, she scooted closer to embrace him. At once, her warmth diffused against his skin. His heavy eyelids started to drop, and she gently tapped his cheek to keep him awake.

— "Hannibal, I can give you some, we're the same blood type."

The grunt didn't even escape his lips as his eyes closed. While he lost consciousness, Hannibal wondered how she had gathered that he was an A+ like her. That woman would never cease to amaze him. Her cold blood, her wits, her unending pool of love… the length she went for him, almost getting herself killed in the process. Even now, partially drowned with a bullet in her calf, she was still taking care of him. Reality would send her crashing down soon enough.

— "Hannibal", she warned.

But the scolding fell on deaf ears as for the first time in years, Hannibal accepted to loose control, embracing the darkness that couldn't be kept at bay anymore. No matter what happened now - he had succumbed to stronger than himself - he knew that Will would look after Frances. And she was Mrs Lecter now; she would want for nothing and inherit his possessions. Perhaps she could be happy without the shadow of his crimes looming over her. Yes. It was for the best. As he surrendered, his body shutting down from blood loss, Hannibal could feel her warmth surrounding him and her love supporting him.

— "Hannibal !", she screamed at him. "Don't you dare leaving me !"

Her grip tightened on his shoulder as she shook him. A useless attempt to bring him back.

— "Hann… Tristan ! Not again… not again…"

Then, the world ended.

Jack watched with a thumping heart the slumped body of the young woman holding Dr Lecter's wrist. Her own wound was still bleeding profusely, their blood mixing with water on the wet tiles of the swimming pool. Barely conscious, she didn't release her choke hold upon Hannibal's wound. The damn woman had more strength – inner strength, because he did not doubt her physical abilities – than he thought. Even if, this time, she had lost the hand to hand encounter with the Red Dragon, her sheer determination still impressed him. And seeing her, now, a mere body beside her husband's prone form… it stirred something in his chest. This was love of the purest kind. Would Dr Lecter survive this ordeal ? He certainly hoped so, because he didn't want to pick up the pieces.

The wailing sirens were closing in. What took them so fucking long ? Dr Lecter was probably out of reach now, for God's sake ! It wasn't good enough. They were needed NOW ! Lifting his eyes to Alana, Jack ordered.

— "Get them here"

Alana Bloom tore her wide blue eyes from the bodies littering the floor and took off running. Hopefully, they would be able to save the lady; her wound wasn't lethal. Perhaps revive her husband... Will was shaking now, perhaps from the strain of his uncomfortable position over both Frances and Dr Lecter. His eyes didn't leave them, slightly glazed, as if in morbid contemplation.

Jack knelt beside Will, unsure about touching him right now.

— "It's a striking image", he murmured to the empath.

Will gulped, his memory assaulting him with images of Badon Hill's battlefield. Frances, slumped over Tristan's body, her blood pooling over his armor, mingling with his in a steady flow. His still heart under her palm, his soul freed from the vessel of his body. Her grief… so intense that it made his heart bleed. They had failed. Both he and Hannibal. Failed at protecting her once more.

— "Yeah, a little too familiar."


	29. Chapter 29 - The aftermath

Jack Crawford observed the couple in the tiny hospital room. Both asleep, both plugged to beeping machines, banged and bruised, her left hand holding his across the empty space that separated their beds. A smart move from Will who had pushed her bed closer after they took her out of surgery. Even half conscious, her fingers had enclosed Dr Lecter's ones in a vice grip, mumbling a quiet thank you and calling him Galahad. Weird. But the annoying beep of the machine had then stabilized nicely, her heartrate indicating deep and regenerative sleep.

Jack sighed. He was starting to understand the connection between those two souls, feeling like a peeping Tom as he peeked into their private life. For this very domestic gesture created a bubble around them, a private space where they both coexisted in the other's soul; a family of sorts. It just blew off his mind, to find such a strong bond between two people who had met barely six months ago. He that always believed than a relationship was built over years. He'd known Bella for a while, after all, before even asking her out.

Will had just left, creating another puzzle in his mind. For if Dr Lecter and his young wife certainly cut an imposing couple, he could not fathom Will's place in this strange trio. The glow that brightened the empath's eyes when he realized that Dr Lecter's heart was still beating under his fingers – tightly woven over his wrist – had been a sight to behold. As if his entire being had lightened up. Something escaped him. He was sure of it. And to be honest, he didn't even think if he wanted to know.

When Hannibal awoke from his slumber, the sensation of little fingers gripping his called a smile to his lips. He knew exactly who had claimed his hand as he slept, remining him once more that his years of solitude were over. It would take a while for him to come to terms with the events with the Red Dragon; the consideration of his own death not being the most dreadful image stored in his memory palace. No. There were feelings, deep down, he had not felt since Mischa had been killed. Dread, loss, grief that had been transformed into anger. His drive. And he couldn't ignore his slip of control as his body balanced precariously on the tip of this bucket, the fear that had pooled his stomach, frightening, overwhelming, as he considered his wife's death.

Was he becoming too attached ? Yes, probably. For a man like him, dependency could lead to death as easily as falling upon one's sword. Still… she depended on him just as much, if not more. If she died, he would return to his solitary life with more grief, more anger, more control. A stronger desire to twist souls and bring them to darkness, the impersonation of the devils himself. But if he passed… there might be nothing left of her.

For the moment, Frances slept soundly. A side effect from the surgery, probably, as she didn't even register the slight squeeze of his fingers around hers. Hannibal turned aside very carefully, mindful of the IV that pumped drugs and electrolytes into his body. Two transfusions had been necessary to stabilize him, and two rows of heavy stitches along his arms that stung with the slightest move. His throat was raw, the chaffed skin protesting strongly. The Red Dragon had done a lot of damage for a single man, still he could do better… much better. That despicable former patient of his had not played fair. Hannibal didn't care much; he had a high tolerance for pain, and the scars would remind him of the consequences of his actions. He nearly welcomed it.

His light hazel eyes travelled along the tense features of his wife. She was officially his, now. Mrs Lecter. Her face was pale despite the huge bruise on her cheekbone, her brow slightly furrowed even in drug induced sleep, loose strands of reddish hair pooling over her shoulder. His poor, tiny slip of a wife who had flung herself to the Red Dragon to save his life. How shameful did he feel ? Not as much as he should. Will had ordered her to await for Jack's arrival; she should have listened. And after all, she knew what she was getting into when she married him. The price of protecting him, the price of asking for all killings to cease. Was it worth her life ? No. It would never be worth it. Frances' life was precious to him; had the Red Dragon not perished from his gunwound, Hannibal would have finished him with his bare hands.

Trailing his tongue over his upper teeth, the psychiatrist regretted being stranded in his own bed. The tiny contact of her hand was nowhere good enough to enjoy her warmth. The hospital blouse didn't sit right with her; Frances always slept nearly naked save for tiny panties… lacy ones, or not at all depending on the previous activity. Her skin on display for him to enjoy. But now there were stranded in twin hospital beds, there would be no intimacy. Nothing close to tasting her skin, or even feeling her heartbeat against his chest.

A shudder rocked her frame and Hannibal tightened his grip at once, preventing her from ripping her own IV as she trashed in bed. The heartrate monitor accelerated, its bips becoming more frantic. Whimpers turned into distressed moans, her body jerking once or twice before a painful cry escaped her.

— "Hannibal !" she cried out, nearly toppling over.

— "I'm here. Be still"

And his smooth voice carried the tone of authority he so scarcely used with her, calling her from the delirium that plagued her mind. Frances started, opening her bleary eyes.

— "It was a nightmare, my beautiful. We are both safe in hospital"

Frances blinked twice, taking in their intertwined hands before she settled on her side with a wince. Her elevated heartbeat slowly decelerated as her warm eyes looked upon his face. Hannibal offered a tiny, exhausted smile to indicate that all was well, and Frances groaned.

— "Smile for me, my beautiful"

— "Hospital, Hannibal. And you call this safe ?"

The psychiatrist chuckled, wincing as the sound reverberated into his sore windpipe. The sense of humour never left her, even if it bordered on cynical whenever she was upset.

— "I'd rather see you naked than in this horrible blouse", he whispered, his eyes simmering.

A blush crept upon her cheeks, giving her a much healthier complexion. But rather than shy away, she left her eyes travel from his face down his body outlined by the white sheet.

— "My thoughts exactly"

His tongue darted upon his lower lip, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards.

— "Little minx"

— "Yes, but I'm YOUR little minx"

The psychiatrist lifted an eyebrow, pleased by her boldness.

— "We'll discuss this upon our return"

— "Count on it"

The banter went on for a minute, neither of them willing to plunge back into the fray. A little heartfelt moment for two souls who had seen death, and the mood brightened as Frances suddenly blurted.

— "Hannibal, I just realised something!"

And the panick in her face was so genuine that he tensed in bed.

— "What ?"

— "If the two of us are stuck here, who will be cooking ? We can't possibly eat hospital food"

This time, Hannibal actually laughed. A true, heartfelt laugh that rumbled in his chest and released the pressure on his tense muscles, causing him to roll on his back and pull on the stitches. Truth be told, he knew he would miss Frances' cooking. Despite her inability to present any dish elegantly – they always looked rather awful – and follow a receipe, the young woman had actually served him many delicious meals. Little did he know that she experimented when he was absent. But her cooking habits were fascinating. Frances did not follow any rule, any recipe was twisted and adapted at least thrice during the course of a cooking session, and intuition led her to many, many hazardous mixes.

The first time he'd seen her cook, he had been appalled at her lack of precision. Accepting it had shaken the foundations of his beliefs; only the taste had convinced him. He and Frances were polar opposites. Her dishes were created by pure instinct – thank God she had a keen sense of smell. He'd seen her add some more salt with barely a sniff, put more lemon – without knowing the quantity – as her tongue tasted a piece of vegetable, throwing spices into a dish because the color pleased her. Cinnamon in tomatoe sauce, honey to caramelize onions… without an inkling of an idea to whatever she wanted to accomplish. Her salads sometimes held half of what remained in the fridge, but it worked. Mostly. And she learnt from him as well, testing new associations thanks to his own recipes.

— "Despite what you might think, I actually appreciate your cooking"

A genuine smile brightened her tired face.

— "Thank you, my husband. It means a lot to me"

— "…Albeit I cannot make heads or tails of it"

Rolling her eyes, she squeezed his hand in response. Hannibal intertwined their fingers, starting a rolling movement along her knuckles that caused her eyes to close in rapture. The stiches pulled at his skin from wrist to inner elbow, but he was glad to see that his muscles still worked properly.

— "Remember the first time you asked the recipe of that cake I made for you ?"

Hannibal growled slightly, frustrated that he couldn't use his second hand, stuck over his hip by the tubes. Frances' eyes flew open, interrogative.

— "Edeitic memory, my dear. You opened your wide almond eyes to me like a deer caught in headlights and answered…"

— "I don't know", they both finished together, a smile tugging at her lips.

Silence settled for a while, the mood gradually shifting from this merry reminiscence to something darker. Hannibal's gentle massage eventually settled, blood seeping through his bandage. A Lithuanian word passed his lips and Frances almost fell out of bed. In spite of everything, she had never heard him swear. Her wide eyes searched his face, and when she found the pain, her face twisted. Sadness washed over her… regret, slowly but surely calling rightful anger.

— "Are we going to speak about the fact that you have been lying to me ? And probably coercing Will into lying to me as well ?"

Hannibal winced again. Yeah, she was mightily pissed, and he would get an earful because he had no way to escape that bed.

— "I didn't, I just avoided voicing my concerns."

— "Lying by omission, husband, much much better", she hissed.

— "Aren't you practicing every day ?"

The psychiatrist cringed at his own low blow. Yes, she was lying by omission to Will every single day, and suffered from it. All of it for his sake, but she needed to understand that it was for hers just as well. Needed to take the responsibility so that it didn't rest solely on his shoulders. Yes, she was protecting a serial killer, and the justice would see her as an accomplice.

Frances stuttered then, hit full force by the horrible truth of this statement. Trust Hannibal to break her heart in a thousand pieces at the worst of moments. He knew her buttons, like the master manipulator he was. He knew how to put her on her knees, how to call the guilt and show her how irrational she was.

— "We do strange things for love", she spat.

Then she removed the IV and let it leak on the floor.

— "Frances…"

Jaw clenched, she tore the wires away from her chest – a habit – and stood on her uninjured leg. He could see the moment the world started spinning for her, and worry replaced annoyance. Yes, he'd only stated the truth, but now was hardly the moment to rub her nose into those inconsistencies. How heartless he could be… The machine started yelling about the absence of heartrate, but Frances ignored it entirely. Pure anger shone in her eyes, radiating off her like a tsunami.

— "I hate you, Hannibal"

The she hopped away on one leg, holding to the walls to keep upright.

— "I know. As much as you love me", he whispered.

She turned around just before passing the door, giving him one last look. Wondering, maybe, how he knew it.

— "I see it in your eyes, sometimes", he explained.

The dam broke then, and sadness replaced anger as tears leaked from her eyes. He watched as her chest heaved to contain the sobs. Then she left, leaving the door clanging behind her. Nurses and doctors irrupted in a flurry of panick barely ten seconds later. Hannibal settled on his back, telling them that his wife had left. How they had not been able to catch her in the corridor was a wonder; those people definitely couldn't be trusted with Frances' life.

An hour passed, then two and Hannibal started to worry for good. How did she fare, his little wife ? Would she sell him in her anger ? Call Jack Crawford and tell him about the Chesapeake Ripper ? No, she never would. Funny how his life hung by a thread; she held his future in her hands, and he wasn't even worried for himself. She had protected him with her life, and he had lashed out. Residual fear, he guessed, for seeing her at the bottom of that pool to save him.

Well, well. It seemed the psychiatrist was at the mercy of human feelings after all. Good, or bad news ? Hannibal mulled over it; it depended on the point of view. Frances would be delighted to take a peek at his heart and see it beating, while he didn't particularly relish in the weakness of human emotions. Yet… perhaps an apology was in order.

But it would have to wait, though, because she didn't return. Neither in the evening, nor at night. Hannibal had no trouble finding sleep – a side effect of the surgery – but his dreams were plagued by her agonised cries. The second day, a delivery man came to the room with red roses, and a proper meal from a nearby restaurant. Filet mignon and mashed potatoes. Attached to the flower was a card, written by her hand. The quill had trembled at the bottom, and reality suddenly crashed. Would he ever see her again ? Had she eventually realised that she couldn't handle it ? Handle him ? Has she disappeared like she had promised to do on the first night, never to return ? He wouldn't chase her; the unspoken promise between them still held.

"_Get well. Do not worry about me, I hired a nurse_

_Forever yours, _

_Frances"_

Bereft, Hannibal lost his gaze in the contemplation of the red blossoms she had chosen for him. Would it be the last token of a loving wife who had nearly sacrificed herself for him ? Was he really worth it ? He missed her now. Her laugh, her quick wit, her teasing. Her secret smiles and twinkling eyes. He had gotten so used to having her close, to finding her home to exchange his view of the world or opinions on whatever was on the news. The nurse found him in his own little world, then the doctor came, asking about his wife whereabouts. He was rather ashamed to admit that he had no idea where she could be.

A few hours later, Will and Jack Crawford came to Hannibal's room, their faces grave. The head of behaviorial sciences didn't beat around the bush as he announced.

— "Freddie Lounds is dead"

Hannibal's eyebrows shot up, surprised by this new development, but not too disappointed.

— "What happened ?", he asked.

It was Will who responded, stubbornly refusing to meet his eyes.

— "The red dragon shot her before he came to get you. One bullet to the head as per the modum operandi"

— "This is grave news indeed"

Crawford fidgeted for a moment before he made for the door.

— "I would never wish for someone's death, but since she sent him after you with her article, I guess we can call it karma and leave it at that. Another victim of the Red Dragon"

Frowning, Hannibal tried to catch Will's gaze.

— "I didn't think miss Lounds would be a target. I don't understand his motives"

— "Neither do I. But I am glad this is over and you are recovering, Dr Lecter. Now I must be on my way, give my respects to your wife"

And Jack left without even realising that Frances' bed was not even unmade. Will trailed beside his, his eyes lingering on the bandages that adorned Hannibal's forearms. Then he sat at his feet.

— "Where is Frances ?"

The psychiatrist cocked his head aside, wondering how he was going to explain her absence.

— "You know her, she hates hospitals. She left…"

The empath jumped on his feet.

— "What ? What about her leg ? Where is she ? I should visit her to make sure she is allright"

— "Will."

Hannibal's tone cause Will to stop in his tracks.

— "She left. I sent someone home, and she is not there. Her phone remained behind, though. I don't know where she fled"

— "Why ? I though she knew she can come to me anytime"

Something flickered in the doctor's eyes, the jealousy quelled by the fact that Frances had chosen not to hide in Wolf's Trap this time.

— "Her anger has gotten the best of her"

— "Why ?"

Hannibal's tongue darted over his upper teeth, his jaw tightening.

— "Because I didn't tell her about Francis. Because I was mistaken and made him into the man he was. Because I asked you not to say anything. Because I said things I shouldn't have out of fear…"

The list was long, so long that Hannibal realised how betrayed his wife must feel. There was much to atone for… if he ever saw her again. But Will shook his head stubbornly.

— "She wouldn't do that. She wouldn't run like that unless she had a very good reason"

— "She is in shock, Will. She was there long enough to see Francis bleeding me like a cow. She stopped his knife before he could rip my heart out. That's enough to mess with someone's mind. Give her some time"

The reminder of her face, aghast, as she charged Francis caused his stitches to burn. Hannibal closed his eyes to refrain from scratching the damn bandages. Another seven days until they could be removed, damn ! Would she be here when the nurse took them off ?

— "She's strong, she will come round"

Hannibal nodded, doubt nagging at him once more.

— "Yes, I hope so. In the meantime, I am rather curious about the red dragon's motives to kill Freddie Lounds. Did you manage to sort it out ?"

The look Will Graham gave him in return was laden with shame.

Every day, Hannibal received two meals to keep him sane. A wonderful attention from an absent woman whose anger still echoed on the whitewashed walls. Five long days in hospital, where his mind wandered to her secretive smile, and the way his heart soared whenever she used him as a cushion. But of Frances, there was no trace.

On the fifth day, Hannibal called a taxi to bring him home, a little suitcase containing his belongings, and Frances' by his side. The stitches still pulled, and he could barely lift the damn luggage. Fortunately, the taxi driver brought it up in a gesture of good manner, and Hannibal thanked him with a rewarding tip. Only when the man left did he hear the sound of the harpsichord playing in the living room.

His heart rate picked up as he struggled with the lock, his ear strained to hear how beautifully Frances played this song. 'Nuvole bianche', of course, her Einaudi favourite piece. Then the music stopped, and the door opened before he could cry from the strain of turning the blasted bolts. His eyes nearly watered when he spotted her, long flowing pants to hide the bandages of her calf, the cashmere jumper he had offered her upon her shoulders. The mighty bruise at the side of her face had faded from purple to yellowish; it still made him angry. Her eyes roamed over him, as if assessing if she should let him enter in his own house. The truth was that he quite wondered himself if he was worthy to have a wife. She was, now, mistress of this place.

The wide chocolate eyes were sad, the circles on her skin betraying lack of sleep. Immediately, she looked at his wrist, then at the fading bruise on his neck. Then their eyes met, and Hannibal staggered from the amount of emotions that flooded between them. It was so intense, nearly painful to watch such was her distress. She was… desperate. For a second, he wondered if they were going to survive this, as a couple. If she was going to survive this, as a person.

— "I am happy to see you well", she said.

Her voice was deadened, disincarnate. Before Hannibal could find the proper words – for once, his mind failed him – she turned around and hopped through the corridor, leaving the door open for him. The psychiatrist pushed the suitcase inside with his foot, then closed the front door behind him. Frances' voice called from the stairs:

— "Don't pull the bolts, I'm expecting the nurse in an hour"

— "How is your calf healing?"

— "Like a bullet wound. No infection", she deadpanned.

Her eyes didn't rise to meet his, and she leant over the stairs ramp.

— "I could take over the treatment if you want", Hannibal suggested.

— "No, you can't, not with your forearms"

The subject was closed.

— "Will was very worried when he didn't find you here. So was I"

Silence.

— "Where were you?"

— "Away"

The young woman hopped up the stairs painfully – couldn't she use crunches for God's sake ! - disappearing from view. The door from her study closed, and Hannibal crashed into the living room, his feelings all over the place. Had trust gone entirely ? Was there anything worth repairing ? Where was 'away ?' Sighing, he let his head fall over the headrest, and closed his eyes. The familiar scents of his home brought him unexpected solace, and he fell asleep in the armchair.

Hannibal started awake. Something was wrong. He stood slowly, ready to attack whatever had snaked into his house. Frances was upstairs, damn ! Worried, the psychiatrist crawled into the darkened corridor. A woman screamed and he started.

— "Oh my god, sir. You startled me !"

A brunette woman, mid-forties, put her hand over her chest. Recognising the heavy bag – the nurse ! Hannibal released the breath he was holding. Was he suffering from post traumatic stress ? damn, he would have to talk it out with his own psychiatrist. He couldn't start jumping at every noise like Frances did. He was used to being the predator, not the prey…

— "My apologies. I'm Doctor Lecter"

— "Your wife told me you have stitches, did you need me to have a look ?"

He shook his head, reaching for the light switch carefully – to avoid pulling at the muscle.

— "It's allright, but thank you for asking, and taking a good care of Frances."

— "You're welcome. I'll come by tomorrow, same time. And Dr ? For the record, I am glad this monster is dead so he can't attack innocent people anymore"

The psychiatrist nodded absently, letting the woman go. When the door clanged, he turned around to find Frances upstairs, watching him.

— "Innocent people…", she murmured.

Then she disappeared in their bedroom. Hannibal sighed; he needed to fix this mess and was glad that Frances had remained in the master bedroom rather than take a guest room. It meant she felt at home there. Climbing the stairs, he found her lying on the bed, her leg extended. He sat beside her, keeping his hands to himself.

— "If I make love to you all night, will you forgive me ?"

Her eyebrows rose at this unexpected icebreaker, but she didn't smile.

— "Forgive you for being who you are ?"

Hannibal's breath caught; it was nothing but the truth. Had she come to that conclusion during her voluntary seclusion ?

— "You were right", she said. "This is what hurts the most"

— "Knowledge rests not upon truth alone, but upon error also", he quoted.

She gave him a suspicious look; where was the mistake ?

— "Who said that ?"

— "Carl Jung"

Her nose crunched as she roamed her mind. Hannibal could spot the moment she found it, for her features changed.

— "Freud's disciple ?"

To think she was only twenty-three years old, and already knowledgeable in so many things.

— "You always amaze me, my beautiful"

— "You taught me about him. I always remember what you tell me"

Fondness washed over Hannibal like a benevolent wave.

— "Yes, you have shown an aptitude to learn equal to my own. You are my match, Frances."

The compliment didn't strike as she retorted angrily.

— "In all manners of things except for the bloodlust and disposition towards others"

It should have stung, but Hannibal knew that about him. As a sociopath, he had trouble considering others as human beings with feelings. Hence the way he played about with their psyche, and experimented. Hence his desperate research of acceptance and understanding. And no matter how hard Frances tried, she would never be able to understand him fully, nor to accept his ways.

— "Yes. Are you still willing to keep me as a husband ?"

— "Til death do us part, even if I have to deal it"

The roof could have fallen upon the pair that their eyes would still be locked. For the first time, Frances had issued a warning. Hannibal took a moment to consider the threat – to herself, and to him – his analysis very little impaired by feelings. He could still kill her… or she could kill him. Well, that was an interesting development. Division, when a near death experience should have brought them closer. Back to square one, except that the kitten had grown into a panther. A smirk formed at the corner of his lips; how would he deal with her ten years from now, when her character had grown and her resolve strengthened ? She already was a formidable adversary.

— "How can we bridge this gap, Frances ?"

The young woman dropped her gaze to the wedding ring on her finger, fiddling with it.

— "No more lies. No more omissions. You aren't protecting me this way"

— "If you had listened to Will…"

Frances sprang on the bed, the pain from her leg barely making it to her face such was her wrath.

— "You would be fucking dead, Hannibal", she shouted.

Angst and fear suddenly flooded him, and the psychiatrist surprised himself by shouting back.

— "Better you than me !"

There were tears in her eyes, and her chest heaved. Setting a hand on her sternum, she sent him a pleading look.

— "How do you think I would fare if you died, uh ? How long do you think I would have ?"

The plain truth hit him like a brick wall and Hannibal sat, defeated.

— "What do you want, Frances ?"

Her features set in a resolved expression he knew well. There would be no negociation.

— "I want trust. You need to stop thinking like a lone man. We're a family now."

The words family caused his heart to stir, but the fire was extinguished at once. Too dangerous. Too volatile.

— "I've been to war, I've deceived snake heads and fought against wraith that would make your blood freeze. Together, we're invincible."

Folding her legs with a wince, she touched his cheekbone.

— "Apart… it doesn't work Hannibal. Or maybe you should have come with me at the skating rink like you promised."

— "You are right, my beautiful. I owe you that."

Dejected, she landed on the bed again.

— "I don't think I'll be able to skate for some time"

Hannibal shook his head regretfully.

— "No. But when you are, I will be here with you"

A tentative truce was sealed, but Hannibal knew that it would take time to mend this tear between them. And truth be told, he really wanted to. Somehow, this little lady had become the sun he revolved around.

Three days later, Frances was awakened by the sound of voices conversing in the kitchen. Frowning, she extracted herself from the bed and put on Hannibal's bathrobe. Needless to say that her fingers barely made it past the sleeve. The door to their room was slightly ajar; strange, he usually closed it when he cooked breakfast. The aroma of coffee reached her nose, and Frances wondered who has stopped by. Jack ? Will ? Alana ?

She took a tentative step down the stairs, careful not to make any noise. Ever since that attack on Hannibal, she was always careful to keep an advantage until she knew if danger was lurking about. But she recognised the voice at once. Will. Scrunching her nose, she stilled on the steps; she didn't know quite how to feel about him. He, too, had lied to her about the red dragon, pretexting he didn't have time for their weekly lunch rather than telling her the truth. That a monster, a former patient of her husband, was on the loose and very intent on making him pay.

Biting her lip, she was considering climbing the steps back when Will's words caught her attention.

— "I can never tell her, Hannibal. She'd never forgive me."

— "Do not presume anything about Frances, Will. You would be surprised by her ability to accept and forgive"

— "But…"

— "She's awake, Will"

Damn, busted. Frances hobbled down the stairs, careful not to apply weight on the torn muscle of her calf. Easier said than done, and Hannibal climbed the last steps to offer his arm. She took it gratefully

— "You should use the crunches I got you", he gently chastised.

— "And the nurse said you should refrain from cooking. Apparently, we are both really undisciplined"

Hannibal's hold tightened on her waist, and she refrained from attacking him any further. Yet, she wasn't about to be lectured when he could no less find the heart to obey. Twice already, he had burst a stitch trying to slice vegetables.

Was it the unusual tension between them that sent Will away ? She would never know. For he only stuttered a few inconsistent things, then hugged her and left as if in a hurry. Considering she had not seen him from the day he had pulled her out of the water, his flight left her a little bereft.

— "What just happened ?", she asked Hannibal.

The psychiatrist pursed his lips, and her eyes narrowed. Three days after the truce, and the lies were back full swing.

— "Hannibal ?", she growled.

— "I'm afraid it is not my secret to tell."

And despite the seriousness of his tone, Frances' stomach tightened into knots for he seemed… almost giddy. Not in appearance of course, but she knew him better than anyone, and the light in his eyes sold him out. Something had happened. Something that brought him satisfaction and solace.

This could not be good.


	30. Chapter 30 - Where do we go from here

1\. Where do we go from here ?

**_Hey, it's been a while I haven't returned to Hannibal. Let's see where our lovebirds are going. And I have to admit that I had trouble writing a part of this… I'm getting old, perhaps, or too sensitive. Being a mother, the very idea of eating a child. Ugh !_**

Sinking… sinking to the depths of the Ocean. Slowing her breath down, calming her racing heart to use as little oxygen as possible. Blue, deep, dark blue everywhere, and something calling at her on the surface. Something important… No. Someone important. Someone needed her, but she couldn't join him. No. Sinking, sinking deeper. She needed to…

Air ! Her lungs screamed for it. The great red dragon awaited - tail full of hard scales - for the moment she would resurface. No, she was as good as dead if she listened to her lungs. Oxygen became scare, the need to breathe unbearable. Yet she sunk lower and lower into the warm water, blue becoming dark as spots danced before her eyes. Dizziness, nothing made sense anymore. She was drowning.

It was just as well; dying would be the easy way out. After all, this life was just temporary. A mistake. It only brought pain… pain, frustration and fear. Frances closed her eyes, surrendering to the darkness. A protector no more.

"Bang! Bang"

Two shots caused her head to snap. Her mouth opened, a reflex, to inhale precious oxygen. Only water came through. A great splash. A hand grabbed her, forcing her out of the comfort of death. She struggled, but the grip was too strong. No ! She couldn't come up … she couldn't !

Her body broke the surface, her mouth opening wide to gulp the much-needed air into her lungs. A set of clear blue eyes, dark curls plastered over his face…

Frances started awake.

Hannibal's hand snaked around her waist, crushing her to his chest.

— "Shhh, my beautiful. It was but a nightmare."

The young woman opened her eyes, watching Hannibal's reassuring smile. The psychiatrist looked at her as if she was the most precious gem of history, dark eyes gleaming.

At the corner of his lips, a trail of blood trickled… It grew, becoming a steady stream that tainted his skin and the Egyptian cotton. Frances sprang on her knees, her heart leaping out of her chest. Blood, everywhere. His blood. Pooling in a never-ending crimson shroud, the circle wider and wider around his still frame. Yet Hannibal smiled, oblivious to the life flowing out of him.

Frances fell backwards, screaming her distress. She couldn't breathe.

She started in bed again, her chest painfully constricted. Tears sprang from her eyes, her lips mumbling 'oh my god, of my god', her stomach lurching painfully. The pressure increased tenfold on her sternum, core muscles reacting to the dry heaving. Cuddling into a ball, she didn't register the calm voice that tried to shake her out of her trance. Her brain simply couldn't filter it. Her arms shook, her lips trembled, and she squeezed her eyes shut as she struggled to draw breath. Her lungs refused to expand, the tightness squeezing the life out of her.

A large, gentle hand landed over her upon her sternum; she grabbed it like a lifeline, squeezing the proffered fingers like a stress ball. Warmth flooded her sternum as skin made contact all along her back. Another hand engulfed her forehead, a soothing, beautiful voice repeating its mantra until she could understand it. The moist of his breath upon her the skin of her neck. The tightness receded slightly as she panted, her body uncoiling little by little, gaining more contact with the warm, giant cuddle her husband was offering.

For it was he; the saviour that dug her out of her hole. After a moment, his tone changed and he eventually addressed her.

— "All is well, my beautiful. You are safe and sound, and so am I"

Frances frowned then had she ranted about her vision in the midst of her panick attack ? Deflating in his arms, the young woman cuddled against his body, and drifted to sleep anew. Exhausted.

But Hannibal didn't. Aware of the toll his misadventures had taken on his wife – it wasn't her first nightmare ever since the Red Dragon - he was considering his next move. Perhaps a honeymoon was in order. A break, a real one.

He would have to give his patients a proper referral. Margot Verger, for one, wouldn't be too happy about it but her situation smelt like… trouble again. And after seeing Frances almost die in that pool, he wasn't too keen on causing mayhem. A pity; Margot would have been good sport. He had been forward to pushing her to kill Mason. But he had made a promise to care for his wife, if not before God, to himself. And care she needed. And air, and a radical change.

She was getting in the swing of things again. Sure, the ice-skating was out of the question; her calf was healing properly, but not enough to resume such a strenuous activity. She had dismissed the physiotherapist just as well. She knew which moves to work and didn't need a guy to ogle her while she did the same stupid exercise over and over again. Of course, the man was cute. Probably 35, and a little pushy as well. She'd known all along the physio liked her, and had put boundaries bigger than bunker walls. But the guy just didn't want to understand. Maybe he was horny, maybe he wanted to thaw her Ice Queen persona, maybe he was just plain stupid. For beside the fact that she absolutely loathed morons that couldn't take hints, the man was going to get himself killed. If Hannibal heard of his subtle harassment towards his wife…

So she had dismissed him, and blocked his number, choosing to walk and exercise her calf by herself. Avoiding the subject had been easy; her husband never asked about her schedule. Frances shared what she wanted. It was just a matter of dancing around the things she kept herself entertained with. Or at last, that's what she hoped. Neither of them had returned to the swimming pool. Traumatic memories and long slices upon Hannibal's forearms were in the way. Frances didn't mind much, the smell of chlorine now caused her stomach to twist painfully. The images came day and night, haunting her. She doubted she would ever be able to return to the swimming pool … ever.

The young woman gathered the Egyptian cotton sheets in her arms to pull them into the laundry basket, humming another Opera air she was learning for Hannibal. At least, her voice still worked properly. The limp had become such a habit that she wondered if it would feel weird when both her legs started functioning again. The huge lump of fabric discarded, Frances watched the bed seriously, her tongue peeking between her lips in that serious expression children showed when concentrating hard. The mattress needed to be turned around to avoid doing lumps in their respective space, but it was heavy. And Hannibal not back yet. But she wanted to make the bed with pristine sheets and her new embroidered hem before he came back, so… Well, a little sport could only be fun, right?

Frances attacked the matter cunningly, deciding to slide the mattress around, bit by bit, instead of hauling it up. It took a little time, and effort, and some damn way to position her calf not avoid from hurting the muscle altogether. After five minutes, she was already panting. Stupid blood loss! Her iron levels were still too low, even with the supplementation Hannibal had prescribed. The young woman took a break, settling upon her knees – in seiza – before she could complete the turn. One quarter left, and she would be able to finish the task. Phew.

Wiping her brow with her sleeve, she proceeded to pull at the tremendously heavy furniture, grunting in the effort. The exertion felt good, but her head was swimming a little. Then, a body nearly slammed into her, hands reaching for her arms. Panic immediately seized her. Frances jumped back, heart racing, and stumbled upon the misplaced mattress. Pain made her cry in pain as her calf harshly slammed into the bed frame, stars exploding before her eyes. A booming voice rattled her nerves.

— "Good grief, woman! Are you trying to kill yourself?!"

Frances blinked from her slouched position upon the mattress, recognising Hannibal's voice, but not his frantic tone.

— "What part of 'rest' don't you understand? You almost died for God's sake!"

His anger slammed into her like a brick wall, causing her to hyperventilate. Miffed by the harsh rebuke – she was only trying to make their love nest looking nice for his return – the young woman straightened. There was a wild look in his eyes, something deeply disturbing, a loss of control she'd never seen. But his tone stung, and sarcasm dripped out before she could soften the blow. Cutting, and cruel.

— "I'm aware, husband. Twice, in the span of a year thanks to your friends. Not my highest score, but I wasn't roaming an alien planet so I'd say it counts double"

Retaliation came swiftly, but not in the form she expected as pure wrath seemed to break through his usually poised demeanour. For a moment, Hannibal had left, leaving Tristan in its wake. Burning, simmering Tristan who shouted for the first time.

— "Don't you think I know it? By my fault!"

And damn, what a voice! His cry shook her from head to toe, a great tsunami turning her world upside down, stealing her breath away. And when, at last, she surfaced above the stormy waters, the wave retired to leave her ashore, bereft… silent. Facing a man she thought she knew.

Hannibal's hands were trembling, fists wound tight, his jaw clenched. His eyes, though, wouldn't meet hers. And even if he stood tall, she could read the shame in the dip of his shoulders. Frances inhaled sharply; this wasn't about turning the mattress. This, was his outburst of fear after nearly losing her to the Red Dragon. None too early…

— "I…"

Her voice was trembling. It wouldn't do, for Hannibal's gaze fell upon her face. Features locked, he was every bit the fearsome scout. Unapproachable, unattainable, and torn to shreds. His chest was panting, his breaths uneven and her heart ached for him. For them, who would never be true lovers with a blissful existence. She was on borrowed time here – her guts never lied – and he needed to understand that.

— "Hannibal. It's probably the universe trying to settle its score."

— "It is no laughing matter."

The psychiatrist felt his limbs tremble, his lungs constricting in panic. He never panicked, what the hell was wrong with him? Why did she speak of her death so easily, so carelessly? Didn't she realise how deep she had settled in his heart? In his mind? Frances was slipping … slipping away from him, from this life and this world. He needed to act, soon. To get her out of this environment that sclerosed her.

— "Come," she eventually said, offering her hand. "Tell me what you fear."

His inner wolf recoiled, the biting words nearly tumbling over his lips before he could catch them. But Hannibal was a cold, controlled man. His insides rolled, and he took her hand instead of biting her head off. When was the last time anger had taken hold of him like this? Settling beside her on the mattress, it was with a surprised ease that he told her the plain truth.

— "I never allowed myself to care about someone since Mischa. I fear to lose you like I lost her."

There never was a shorter résumé of his broken psyche. What he didn't expect, though, was the question that followed.

— "Who was she, Hannibal?"

The psychiatrist started then, searching Frances' warm gaze to find the truth. She had not a clue about what made him … him.

— "My sister. How come you knew about me, but not about her?"

— "You are … quite famous in my world, movies were made."

She cringed at that, and grabbed Hannibal's forearm, her mind roaming the excellent but chilling "silence of the lambs". Antony Hopkins was so far away from the man before her, the man holding her hand now, both trembling from the previous exchange. Frances swallowed thickly, her fingers caressing the scar upon his wrist, tracing the line that disappeared under his cuff before adding:

— "I never read the books, and they don't speak about it. Tell me?"

Hannibal nodded, remembering his promise. Someday. That day was today, after Frances nearly died saving his life. She deserved the truth of his story, and so, sitting on a bare mattress that hung awkwardly around the bedframe, he told her of Mischa, of their parent's death and the horrible events that transpired afterwards. Of the people who ate his sister because they were starving. Or his own delight at eating her lovely, pink flesh; the best piece of meat he had ever tasted because his stomach had been empty for days.

Frances cried, torrents upon torrents of tears that could never reach the extend of his grief. He was numbed to it by now, the big, gaping hole and trauma buried under constructions of a controlling mind, broken shards that made him a peculiar psychopath without an ounce of guilt. He had trouble remembering the heaving of his stomach that day… Yet, even if he didn't feel the need to shed a tear, Frances cried for him. She channelled all the sadness he could never voice, the grief he could never share, the anguish that rested within, and festered. And he wondered how different life would be if he had been able to cry it out at the time.

The Ocean breeze rustled Frances' ringlets around her face, bringing her the contentment she always drew from the iodine smell. Sitting over the low wall that marked the terrace limit, Will and Frances enjoyed a moment of peace while Hannibal fixed some drinks in the beach house. Until the empath insisted that she be treated for PTSD, and the young woman's chest started constricting at the flooding memories of Hannibal's blood dripping on the tiles.

— "You need to see someone, Frances. What happened in your life, all those missions, you'll drown in it"

The young woman shook her head, amazed by Will's refusal to see the obvious. Apart from Hannibal, what professional would hear of time travel, monsters and battles of another era without committing her ? Of King Arthur's knights ? There wasn't anyone qualified to be her psychiatrist, and she knew her husband was unsuitable to treat her. Too close, first. Too manipulative as well; she wouldn't be able to trust him with her mind. How sad it was, that the man she loved, her husband, sworn to protect her, couldn't be trusted. This was the sad truth. Hence the deflection.

— "Yeah, perhaps."

Her shoe kicked a rock, sending it flying over the edge of the cliff to the rumbling waters below. The sound of the sea, even subdued, always caused her body to relax. It even allowed her to ignore Will's bristling by her side.

— "Perhaps ? No, I'm sure. Killing Garett Jacob Hobbs was horrible…"

When Frances' eyes landed upon him, the empath couldn't help but swallow nervously. She was so unnerving sometimes, like a hawk watching its prey. Not unlike Hannibal.

— "I have killed many more than… that you can ever imagine."

Many more than Hannibal. Kicking the thought away so that Will couldn't read it on her face, she wasn't surprised when a glass white wine appeared before her eyes. Warm chocolate met amber eyes, a loaded look of warning and thanks all the same. Frances smiled, taking the glass of – one sniff – burgundy from him with a dip of her head. The psychiatrist always knew when to pop, as if his danger warning drove him to prevent people from exposing him. As if he'd kept one ear out, just in case. Tristan used to do this; always aware of his surroundings, no matter what. The scout surfaced, sometimes, in Hannibal's demeanor. Like… right now.

— "Did you keep count ?", his smooth voice asked as he situated himself by her side, his warmth seeping through her flank.

Frances inhaled sharply, catching a whiff of the oak fragrance of the wine mingled with Hannibal's heavenly scent. To Will, his question might seem professional. But she knew he wanted to compare the score. Sneaky man. His cunning floored her more often than not, and she was the only one in close proximity to know how clever Dr Lecter could be. One foot away, Will dipped his lips into the beer, his clear blue eyes awaiting a response.

— "No. I never thought to count. A lot were monsters, orcs. Others… you were here to witness, even if you can't remember…"

Will shuddered, for he couldn't erase from his mind the vision of Tristan and Frances laying waste on the battlefield.

— "I do", he eventually said, fingers playing with the rim of his beer. "You were efficient"

Frances tried to recall, battle by battle, the identity and numbers of her kills. From her days as a gladiator in ancient Roma, to missions offworld with SG1 and the last battle against the Saxons beside Arthur's men… It was just too uncertain to make a count.

— "Saxons, Haradrims, gladiators. I just don't know. Some I sliced, some I know could only die from the wounds I inflicted. But in battle, everything goes too fast."

The images of her charge, tucked behind Tristan's body on his gigantic warhorse, came to mind. Her sword had wreaked havoc on the field, but she had no idea how many had been incapacitated by her blows. Between the horse' hooves, the momentum and the poor precision of her blade… who knew ?

— "Tristan would have counted I'm sure", Will grumbled.

The memory of an elf and a dwarf counting their kills aloud didn't erase the harsh reality of Tristan, the man who could have killed any human being without batting an eyelash. Of Hannibal, now, still able to do so in the 21st century. And even if Wil's grumbling reminded her so much of the grumpy Galahad, Frances couldn't smile. By her side, Hannibal's arm was sliding across her waist, grounding her in reality. He knew her so well… it was frightening how far she laid in his clutches. She felt so safe in his arms that he could have ripped her throat out with his teeth without her moving an inch. The young woman took a sip of the delicious wine, a hum of appreciation passing her lips.

— "What year, darling ?", she asked.

Hannibal's slow rumble echoed in her ear, causing a shiver to crawl up her spine.

— "96. Can you guess the domain ?"

The young woman scrunched her eyebrows, oblivious to the fact that she was discussing domains in the midst of her kills. Becoming, little by little, attuned to her killer husband. Will was forgotten, the gourmet bubble engulfing her entirely. A little moment of peace where her senses stretched, the taste of oak heavy on her tongue, the smell of Hannibal so close that she wanted to lick his throat, the warmth of his arm and back making her skin hum.

— "Savigny ? Or Montrachet… I can't decide"

Hannibal hummed in satisfaction.

— "Well done, wife. Puligny - Montrachet"

And this parenthesis closed, Frances got back to the subject at hand. Turning to Will, she was surprised to find his gaze locked into the Ocean. Had this time lapse lasted so long, or was he just preserving their privacy ?

— "Anyway, I never asked Tristan. But I think I killed more guys with a MP90 than on hand to hand combat."

— "You know how to use a MP-90?" Will exclaimed, dumbfounded.

As per his book, European ladies did not take crash courses on rifles. Frances' eyebrows rose on her forehead; had he forgotten her involvement with the US military ? SG1 never would have accepted she tag along if she didn't know how to fire an assault rifle.

— "Yes, of course. And a few others, MP-7 for example. Easier to handle, but less powerful"

The empath studied her for a moment, in deep gaze watching her face before he seemed to come to a conclusion.

— "Maybe you should get a gun. It could have turned the tables, that day, at the swimming pool…"

How grateful she was that he never finished his sentence. A great shiver ran through her frame, and she felt Hannibal's hold tighten around her. An attempt to anchor her, to prevent the images from coming. She barely caught a glimpse of his crucified body before Hannibal's hand cupped her cheek, forcing her to meet his gaze. Deep amber eyes watched her; a challenge, a question, a certitude. If she acquired a gun, she would have an advantage over him. But he knew, as did she, that she loved and respected him too much to ever shoot him. If they squared off someday, it would be a fair fight. And so, his lips quirked imperceptibly and his eyes cringed at the corner. Yes.

— "Why not", she nodded.

She then turned back to Will, knowing that talking about firearms would, for once, go way over Hannibal's head.

— "A Berretta would be nice."

The empath cocked his head aside.

— "Personal preference ?"

Frances lips quirked in a fond smile; it was directed to another and Will knew it. The memory of an old friend who had disappeared from her life the moment she set foot in this world.

— "O'Neill's favourite. It would be a tribute to the numerous times he watched my back. He probably shot plenty of Jaffas just to protect me."

Will's eyebrows scrunched and he wiped his sweaty brow – the sun was quite adamant to turn his skin to a crisp today. How unfair that his skin was prone to burning, when both Frances' and Hannibal's only tanned golden. Ah, Lithuania my ass !

— "Sorry, hum, I just can't remember what a jaffa is"

— "Servants of the Goa'uld, those snakes that passed as Gods and enslaved people ?"

— "Right. You need to write is as well"

Frances took a sip of her heavenly wine, the strong fragrance greeting her palate. The sturdy presence of the man along her back permeated through, mixing with the effects of alcohol. The heat of his close body mingled with the warmth of this late may sunshine, lulling her into a sense of safety as she considered the idea. After all, writing was her best shot when it came to healing. Cocking her head aside to catch Hannibal's gaze, she gave him a questioning look.

— "What do you think, husband of mine ?"

The psychiatrist gave her a curious glance, one that said he was considering many implication that had not even brushed her conscience.

— "Given they don't exist in this world, it shouldn't be much of a risk", he eventually declared.

So this is what he was considering. Her safety, once more, from a government that wouldn't have taken well to having its secrets laid bare. Frances nodded, kissing the corner of his sensual lips – and swearing she would taste them fully and thoroughly before evening. Damn, with his shirt opened like this, he exposed himself to serious nuzzling.

— "Writing it is then"

— "And a gun", Will concluded. "Perhaps a Glock 19 would suit better"

Frances groaned; she hated firearms, even though it was the first weapon she had used in the span of her adventures. Yet, it would never hold a candle to her elvish blade. She had to admit that it was easier to kill from a distance and never see the result of a well-placed bullet. Actually, her colleagues had found her rather skillful with a gun… Her aim was true, better even than with the bow provided she wasn't on the move, or too panicked. But she didn't want easy. Frances loathed to take a life, every single spark extinguished haunted her like Garrett Jacob Hobbs haunted Will. She needed the state of anger and purpose to push her to kill a man. With a blade, you had to look your opponent in the eye before he died by your hand. A moment, suspended, where both lives hung in the balance and you had to choose between your opponent's life, or yours. And Frances needed that; this memory, embedded in her heart, to pay tribute to the people she killed. To ensure it wasn't for nothing, that her purpose was true. That, somehow, she wasn't playing God.

A hand caressed her neck, a smooth voice reaching out for her.

— "We live in the US, Frances. We have to adapt"

Trust Hannibal to read her like an open book, and offer reassurance and sound thinking to sway her. Europeans wouldn't think, even for a second, to get a firearm to defend themselves. Kickboxing or martial arts would do for those very wary of their surroundings. But a gun… Those were saved for law enforcement.

— "I'll train with you, if you want" Will added, hoping to make her feel more secure.

Did he think she was afraid ? No, he couldn't get it. She was afraid of herself with a gun, not of the weapon itself.

— "You don't need to. I'm a good shot. I'll get the permit."

Will seemed taken aback, and Frances realized just as much of her past life she had been keeping from him. She couldn't help it; secrecy just came with the job, it was embedded now. And with Hannibal being the Chesapeake Ripper, every single word that passed her lips was calculated a thousand times.

— "So you've shot people with a gun ? Not with a MP-90 I mean ?"

A few memories danced in her mind, none of them too overwhelming. The way she had pissed Hathor, the Goa'uld goddess, by sending a bullet into her shoulder. Hum, that one was actually good.

— "Frances ?"

— "Once or twice, but never close like you did. Never face to face."

Will's eyes clouded a moment and Frances bit her lip; way to remind him of a traumatic event. Hannibal butted it at once, using his curiosity as a distraction. A very morbid distraction.

— "You have killed with a blade, face to face."

Frances twisted around, meeting his gaze squarely. Finding admiration swirling in those mesmerising depths. When he looked at her like this, she just wanted to ravish him. But his question called for an answer, and she nodded.

— "There was Tobias… not with a blade. Because he would have killed you. And my first kill, a slave, in Rome. I had quite a breakdown after this."

— "His life or yours, I imagine"

And where she knew Will would only consider Hannibal's detachment a professional side effect – what a clever idea, the cover story of psychiatry to behave like an automat – she knew he would miss the sparkle of pride and lust for blood in his eyes. Detachment had made the psychiatrist, not the other way around. Would Will ever see it ?

— "Never in cold blood then."

Hannibal's words, coated in honey, were dangerous enough to raise her hackles. Something passed in his eyes then, especially when his gaze left her to find a spot over her shoulder. Frances turned around, frowning at Will ; the empath seemed to be avoiding eye contact again. Stressed out from her mention of Garett Jacob Hobbs ? Her deadened voice answered Hannibal's question, eyes still fixed upon Will.

— "No. Never in cold blood."

— "So gun it is. You can train and do the maintenance with Will whenever you meet for your bow sessions"

— "Ah yes, maintenance. Sure. Fantastic, I'll own a gun"

Hannibal's lips quirked up, his eyes dancing with an inner flame as his next words hit her.

— "But it will not be travelling with us."

Bombshell dropped, the psychiatrist watched his wife's features brighten, the tense lines around her eyes easing away at the perspective of an escape. His chest flooded with warmth, her happiness and relief hitting him much stronger than he thought possible. It always amazed him, this co-dependancy that he had fled his whole life. Her happiness permeated his heart the same way his moods affected her. For the time being, it wasn't so bad. Colours were brighter when shared, food tastier, and his heart less dry than it used to be.

— "Travelling ? Where to ?"

Hannibal kissed her temple gently, searching to hide his flustering as a wave of belonging washing though him.

— "Wherever you want, my wife."

There wasn't a second of hesitation.

— "Italy. I want to get back to Italy."

And there was nothing more satisfying than Frances choosing the very country he so longed to see again. He gazed at her lovingly, unsure about the reason why she watched him with such awe. As if he was a walking miracle in her life. Truthfully, this moment of intimacy was more loaded then the day he asked to marry her; she seemed so full of hope ! Time seemed to still as they both contemplated what it meant for the future until Will's voice broke the charm.

— "Wait, are you going ? When ?"

Hannibal turned to the empath, sending him a reassuring glance.

— "September at best. I need to organize referrals and it is no easy feat. And I want to ensure that you are safe before we enjoy a little rest"

Will swirled the remaining beer in his glass before his eyes settled on the ocean.

— "All right. Good. You've earned it, really. I will be fine"

He didn't quite see it coming, but the next moment, Frances had nearly tackled him over the edge in her enthusiasm to hug the life out of him. And despite the undignified way he saved his own glass of wine and circled her waist at the same time, Hannibal found that he didn't mind at all.

**_Hey, long time no see. I've had a few favourites, thank you for that. 37 follows, that's a good score as well :p Would newcomers be amenable to leave a little word ? Old ones as well, don't feel shy. Come on, put that number of reviews to shame (40, for 115k words !) eh ? I'm sure you all have thoughts worth sharing, even if you vomited right after reading this :p_**


	31. Chapter 31 - Of daughters

_**Hey. Not the nicest of chapters, I hope to have betters ones later one that will take you to Italy. This one is pivotal either way, so let's get on with it.**_

Frances chased the sweat away with the hem of her dress before checking the target. Will and herself were thankful for the sea breeze that brought a little relief from the intense heat. In Baltimore, the weather had gone stifling. The young woman wondered how Hannibal handled the three-piece suit in such weather, but again, the air conditioning helped. In Europe, most homes didn't benefit from this luxury; people adapted to the heat, not the other way around.

— "I beat you"

Frances smiled, retrieving Will's arrows and handing them over. The man now fletched his own projectiles, as per instructions found on the internet and the Keeper of Time's memories of Aragorn's teachings. The empath's aim was now better than hers; she suspected Will to channel his past life when he used that bow. He had improved so easily that he was nearly up to Galahad's level. It was incredible, how Will could summon his past self without boundaries when Hannibal so struggled with the simplest of memories. Two minds, two psyches, too many rules, on the one hand, and an unbound spirit on the other.

— "Yes, you did. And I doubt I'll ever be able to beat you again with a bow. Now, shall we use this blasted gun you pushed me to buy?"

Will had taken Frances to the arms dealer to secure a gun for her, and was in the process of speeding her permit through his contacts with the FBI. They trained, every second week, as he showed her how to take care of the weapon. Cleaning, securing, aiming… Despite Frances' reassurance, Will had still been surprised about her shooting skills. Especially since she disliked the idea immensely.

The distance was still there, though. This strange mood that had settled after the Red Dragon affair, and Frances couldn't make heads or tails of it. Will didn't want to talk about it, Hannibal said he was probably feeling guilty, but refused to share anything that might have been said in the cover of therapy. Given they were not officially therapist and patient, it infuriated her to the highest degree. But Hannibal, much like Will, was a stubborn rock.

— "I … yes. Gun it is. But I'd like a drink first."

— "Great idea, I'm about to melt on the cobblestones."

Both empath and lady burst through the French doors, Will fishing a soda out of the fridge and Frances tutting at the sight of Coke. By now, she didn't even lecture him anymore, keeping the warnings about osteoporosis, acidosis and excess sugar for herself. Hannibal, for one, did not keep his tongue whenever he found such distasteful drink stored in his fridge. The beach house had become their QG, and he was bound to give them a little leeway when it came to their escapades. Chicken filets from the supermarket were tolerated, but he drew the line at Coca-Cola.

Frances fished a little lemonade from the fridge for herself; brown sugar, frizzy water and true lemon were up to her standards. As she settled beside the kitchen counter, sipping on the drink with a sigh of relief, she noticed that Will's gaze was fixed upon her. Something that scarcely happened for he still fled eye contact more often than not.

— "What?" she asked.

At once, Will's blue eyes shifted to the window … to the ocean.

— "I … er. I have something to tell you."

Frances' blood froze in her veins, the glass clanging against the counter as she miscalculated. The young woman cringed, struggling to keep a smile on her face and the gleam of wariness out of her eyes. Had Will found anything about Hannibal's extracurricular activities? Was it the reason for the distance that caused this drift ?

Frances reined in her anguish. Fortunately, the empath seemed flustered enough not to notice her state of agitation. She swallowed her limonade to prevent her voice from trembling.

— "Shoot," she said, hoping to suffuse the situation with humour.

Given their earlier occupation, the expression as well chosen. It fell as flat as a dog in a pond.

— "I'm… I'm going to be a father."

Frances almost sagged against the counter, catching herself just in time to transform her smile of relief in one of happiness.

— "Oh… Oh!"

The young woman then leapt, pulling Will into a bear hug that he returned, a bit out of sorts.

— "How did you even manage that?" she asked, bouncing on her toes.

The empath gave her a lopsided smile, a mischievous light dancing in his cerulean irises and she marvelled at the ease with which he now interacted. Alana had done wonders for him and now…

— "Do you want the talk about bees and…"

A swat landed on his arm.

— "Come on… I never want to hear about you having sex with Alana. You're my brother, I just can't imagine those things."

The statement didn't even seem to register; or perhaps it was true enough to be embedded inside, for Will only waggled his eyebrows.

— "You're one to talk… You and Hannibal. He's fit, for an old man"

What did he mean by that? Was it about the age difference? Or did they show a little more than intended when Will was about? After all, the empath was now a part of their family, and Hannibal was less guarded around him than around strangers. As for her … she made no secret of her affections. Her hands always returned to him … so did her lips. Humph. She needed to redirect that conversation at once!

— "We do not flaunt our animal moments, thank you very much. And we're married. Now, talk. You and Alana been together for 6 months, how did THIS happen?"

— "A lucky accident. We would have waited a few years or so, but fate had decided for us"

Fate. For once, that stupid notion had not screwed up and dealt with good people accordingly. Giving Will and Alana a baby would ensure the empath's mind lingered on other priorities than death and serial killers. It might very well push him away from Jack Crawford's unhealthy consulting jobs. Will's eyes returned to his coke, his hands steady, but his hand scratching at his temple; a nervous tic. Poor man. He had just been on his way to stability when the most destabilising of events landed in his lap.

— "How did she take it ?", Frances asked gently. "How did YOU take it ?"

— "A little shaken, at first, but we're happy."

Happy. Frances raised her glass to Will and tried very hard not let him show how her smile faded. He was right to be happy; Will was about to start a family with the woman he loved, a good, sensible woman who would also be a good mother. And if she shared his enthusiasm, and was eager to welcome a new baby in this family, she couldn't prevent her heart from bleeding. For she would never have it.

Nor the happiness, nor the family. Nor the sense of purpose that parents gained when they welcomed a new being into the world. She and Hannibal had their moments; she loved him, and every single second spent in his arms was a blessing. But she could never surrender to the instinct, the need to have him plant his seed in her womb. To the ecstasy of seeing a child, born from the two of them, grow in her belly. To the beauty of seeing his eyes upon a baby's face, of watching him play with his sons and daughters. Of radiating the happiness of pregnant women, or see a father's pride upon his face. Yet, every time he took her to bed, she felt like begging him to allow her this light in her existence. A daughter, with blond curls and Hannibal's eyes, begged to descend and inhabit their life. She felt it. Would she remind him of Mischa?

Frances blinked, trying very hard to get back to the present.

— "Well. This is … great news, Will. Congrats. When is she due?"

— "End of January"

The young woman nodded, remembering the last Christmas they had spent together in this very house; probably the last. From now on, Will Graham would be a family man. The very thing that had been denied to Jack… and to her.

— "Wow. That's … wow. I'm sure you will be an excellent father, Will."

The empath squinted his eyes, dark curls plastered on his forehead because of the heat, and Frances knew, at once, that her act was not convincing enough. But again, facing an empath … unfair game.

— "Thanks… So, why does it make you sad?"

Damn … how could Will be so perceptive when it came to her, and fail to see Hannibal's true nature? Perhaps because he picked up on her strong feelings – she was such an open book ! - when nothing passed the psychiatrist's walls – delving in Hannibal's feelings was like diving into a mountain lake. Ice, cold, and stillness.

— "Uh?"

— "You are hiding something from me."

Frozen, Frances remained silent. A clear statement that Will was true, but she didn't know how to answer him without lying. No matter what, he deserved the truth; Frances never lied to her friends. His voice was laced with panic when he asked the next question, carried away by his fears.

— "Have you seen anything happening to Alana or me, or the baby?"

The young woman shook her head vehemently; this wouldn't do. With his imagination, Will could summon any crazy theory.

— "No! Nothing, I've seen nothing."

The empath scooted closer, putting his glass on the counter and DEMANDING her attention. For the first time, she caught a glimpse of what Hannibal saw in Will Graham. The ability to command and dominate. Their gaze met, and Frances felt the walls of her mind crumble. Funny, how Hannibal couldn't pass her thick wards with his intense scrutiny, yet how an empathic look could break her so easily.

— "Then what is it? You claim to be happy for us, but your eyes don't lie. Why are you sad?"

Frances exhaled shakily, settling for the truth. She owed it to him, and would go as far as she could.

— "We can't have children of our own. That is all. I have to come to terms with it."

The empath's face immediately crumbled as the truth settled in his mind.

— "I'm sorry, Frances."

And despite the joy and fear of being a future father, Frances cringed because he meant it so badly. She could have banged her head upon the table.

— "No! Don't be. You're happy, stay happy. Don't be sorry. This is the greatest news ever, I don't want to spoil it."

— "Wanna talk about it?" he asked.

— "Me ? No. I wanna talk about you, and your baby, and Alana, and your future family"

But Will Graham had laid a line in the water, his bait fresh and sound, and didn't intend to let it go. If the news of Alana being pregnant made him insanely giddy, he needed his foster Sister to be able to taste this happiness.

— "Maybe you could adopt? Or find a surrogate, or something like this. Modern technology can do wonders now, and Hannibal is not that old …"

The young woman fists clenched, knuckles turning white until she exploded.

— "NO! I said no. It is impossible, and I never want to talk about it again."

Her outburst shocked Will into silence and he was glad that the waves covered the beating of his heart. Never had Frances shouted at him. She brushed her forehead with a shaky hand, tears springing to her eyes before she wiped them away.

— "I know how your mind works, Will. You're going to imagine a thousand different theories. Don't, it's very simple, it's intimate, and cannot be bypassed. You must accept it, just as I do."

The empath nodded, dumbfounded.

— "And I'm sorry for yelling"

Lips pursed, Will dragged Frances into his arms for a hasty hug. Her explanation effectively cut all speculation from forming in his mind, but from that day, more distance settled between them. After all, she didn't trust him enough to recount the whole story. And who was he to ask for trust when he kept something from her just as well. Something that would horrify her, something so huge… She would never forgive him. At least, he could share the burden with Hannibal.

_The same evening_

Frances' hands ran through the silken strands of Hannibal's wet hair, massaging his skull as she rinsed the lather away. It wasn't often than the psychiatrist joined her in the giant bathtub, and she appreciated the gesture. It had taken just a look for him to know that her heart was bleeding. Another second to offer her to bathe together. Mindful of her aches; considerate like a husband should be. He was so puzzling, sometimes… able to dissect a human body to grace his table, and his palate, without remorse. Yet, he still offered his hand, his time and his consideration without a second thought.

There were scarce, as well, the moments when he allowed her to take the lead and wash his hair. Something about being in control, from what she had gathered. Sprawled between her open legs like a great feline, the psychiatrist hummed his contentment while Frances' hands caressed his body. After massaging his skull, she gently set his head upon her shoulder and reclined in the warm water, her hands trailing across his broad chest, descending across the toned muscles of his stomach and caressing his thighs. Little fingers travelled back up, playing with the wet curls that marred his chest until they settled on their favourite spot; his beating heart. Her hand remained here for a long time, relishing in the fact that he was very much alive. A little miracle.

— "Will and Alana are having a baby.", she eventually said.

Hannibal's breathing didn't even change; he wasn't surprised.

— "I didn't expect it so early"

It she had not been heads over heels in love with him, she might have found his habit to be ten steps ahead infuriating. As it was, the weight of his body over hers, the hum of her skin against his were enough to subdue any feeling of anger.

— "An accident, or so Will says"

— "How does that make you feel ?", his smooth voice asked as he reached for her hand.

The warm fingers encasing her own didn't distract her from the typical question. She didn't want to be treated like a patient; she wanted empathy, and a conversation with her husband. Not the professional coldness he offered to the world. Here, snuggled against his body in a warm bathtub, Frances refused to be treated like a stranger. Fortunately, she now knew how to dodge.

— "What do you think ?", she retorted.

— "Answering a question with a question, wife ?"

The young woman squeezed his hand.

— "Humour me"

A deep sigh caused his chest to dip, and the tall, imposing man straightened himself in the tub. He folded his long legs to turn around and face her, his chest dripping wet, hair slicked back by her ministrations. Once more trapped in his gaze, Frances realised that she didn't mind; she was his, through and through, to do as he pleased. So when he gathered her against his moist skin, her arms wound around his frame easily.

— "Regret. Sadness. Indignation for a perceived injustice", he stated plainly.

His ability to unearth the truth so bluntly never ceased to amaze her.

— "See, you don't even have to ask anymore."

Frances snuggled against his chest, her nose buried against his sternum. As much as she loved lounging in the bath, it removed the faint scent from his skin, leaving one of her senses bereft. She would have to make him sweat a little to get the sweet fragrance of Hannibal back once more. Such a soothing smell; the one of her mate. An alpha male who was perfectly capable of having children… She was the one who denied him this right, after all. And it made her angry, and sad, a little desperate altogether.

— "It hurts you."

Hannibal's tone held a hint of helplessness, so Frances pulled back and looked him in the eye.

— "Yes, I feel it inside. The possibility. I love you so much that I ache to give you a child."

The psychiatrist's pupils seemed to dilate; something feral passed within their depths, mesmerising, as if the beast had been awakened… Frances' hair raised on her arms, goosebumps that had nothing to do with the cold, her breath short. Hannibal remained silent for a moment, his hazel eyes searching for an answer deep within. Calculating, perhaps, the possible paths.

— "Frances. I'm old, but it depends on you more than me. Do you want a child ?"

Her heart, already bleeding, became entirely numb, calling her mind to take over. If he felt genuinely touched by her distress, she doubted his proposal erupted only for her sake; Hannibal always considered his interests first. A reflex born from his trauma, the true trait that made him who he was. The Chesapeake Ripper. Perhaps he wanted a child to mold. A successor of sorts. Perhaps he, too, felt the animalistic pull to procreate. Perhaps he only wanted to push, to offer the possibility to corner her into refusing. Either way, it hurt much more than if he had flat out refused. For now, she was the only one to blame; her shoulders taking the burden entirely. Hannibal would never offer to share it, he that believed strongly in the ownership of every decision.

She couldn't even hate him for this manipulative streak; this is who he was. He protected himself first, always, even when he wasn't conscious of the fact.

Lips pursed, Frances shook her head vehemently.

— "No. We can't risk it. Any other day, Jack will be tapping on your door with a warrant."

There, the score was even. There was a reason why they couldn't have children, and it wasn't her fault. Having a psychopath as a father didn't raise sane people in the first place, and the Chesapeake Ripper might be discovered either way. The Red Dragon episode had been proof enough; this wasn't a healthy environment for a child.

— "But that's not the main reason"

Sneaky, clever, insufferable husband ! She hated him, and loved him for it. The perceptivity of Arthur's scout; the man who saw all, even those inner feelings that struggled to stay hidden. Frances backed away in the bathtub, sitting with her legs in front of her. Her cheek landed upon her knee; tears refused to come, she had shed them all on the drive back from the beach house.

— "And I can't risk loosing you."

Hannibal watched, entirely still, her unbound hair as it spread in the water. So small, so lithe, yet deadly. For she had dealt him a great blow without even knowing it; pushing the possibility of a child away because he was too dangerous to be a father. His mind knew, though, that she was only being reasonable. One of the reasons why he admired her, and had not killed her in the first place. Frances always felt keenly, strong emotions raging through her heart. Yet, she mastered them to take the right decisions in her life. Mind over matter, brains over animal instincts.

So why did she call in him the most basic of them ? How he longed to bury himself in her plush, compliant body and see a child grow there, under the silky skin. A pure soul to mold and grow into a piece of art… Frances would be in the way, and stomp her foot down every single step along its set course. They would fight… and she could very well kill him if he threatened their child's sanity. What she couldn't do to protect herself, she would do for their baby. And if he killed her… he would have to run away from here. Will would never forgive him either.

His inner beast growled, his guts twisting painfully. How dare she take his descendants from him ? As the animal inside bucked and reared, his mind analysed a dozen of situations. A blood bath always greeted him at the end of the line. Separation and heartache. This possibility was a dead end, always. They simply would shatter the unstable equilibrium they had worked so hard to create. Unless Frances died soon after birth. Strangely, the balance didn't shift he right way; a child born of his loins wasn't worth loosing her either.

Frances' quiet voice called him back from his mind.

— "I'm going to ask for tubal ligation."

Hannibal cocked his head aside Frances hated hospitals, but she was ready to crush her possibility to be a mother to keep him ? The purest form of love, or the highest form of stupidity ?

— "You hate hospitals"

— "I do. But I'll do it anyway"

The psychiatrist wondered at this show of short-sightness.

— "Frances. You might come to regret it. What if … you have someone else someday?"

The spike of jealousy twisted his insides painfully but the truth couldn't be ignored; he was more than twenty years her elder, and might die a rather sudden death any day. Her answer, though, was plain, simple, and irrevocable.

— "There is no other man for me in this universe. Not even in the others."

The strength of her voice left no doubt; this wasn't a bout of naiveté. Frances knew, deep down, that he was the only one who would ever touch her. If his inner beast was giddy at the prospect, the certainty of it unsettled him. For she was trapped, as the wife of a serial killer. And if she maimed herself – removed all hope for her to create life – he owed it to her to remain by her side.

— "What if I get caught ?"

— "Not even then"

Hannibal crawled on all fours, careful not to disturb the water as he advanced upon her.

— "What if I die Frances ?", he asked, his face now inches from hers.

She didn't blink, meeting his gaze head on. The Keeper of Time giving him a look he recognised; the future was set. Nothing would ever change it.

— "Then you very well know what will happen to me."

Hannibal's breath hitched, his chest tightening slightly. And while his lips captured hers in a langorous kiss, pulling her into his lap, his mind kept rolling. And despite the distress it caused him, Hannibal couldn't help the sensation of complete domination that washed over him. This woman was his, entirely his to dispose of. Her life and her death in his hands, willingly given, not taken by force. It was so empowering, so dizzying that he held onto her for dear life. Never before had he been offered such a gift.

When Hannibal pulled away, his heart beating harshly against his ribcage, his mind was set.

— "I will do it."

Frances frowned, her lips swollen, gaze unfocused.

— "Do what ?"

— "The sterilization. It is easier for me."

He didn't give her time to protest; a word was a word. And so, to soothe the ache this promise created deep in his belly, he dove back to her lips to collect his prize.

Three weeks later, Frances was left at home while her husband underwent surgery. An easy procedure that, in his own words, didn't need for her to hoover or pace around. But Frances was stubborn; she insisted, at first, to remain by his side. To make her stand, because she was responsible for this choice. But then, as they came to collect a perfected poised Hannibal away, Frances had broken down in his arms. Doubts plaguing her – did she really want to quell that possibility forever ? Could her own selfishness justify to mutilate the man she loved ? Her chest had constricted so strongly that she had trouble breathing, and Hannibal, stalling the nurses in his hospital gown, had sent her home with the promise to call whenever he was ready to return.

So there she was, walking around the house like a ghost, feeling like the worst wife ever. Feeling, once more, so alone because she would never be able to tell anyone about this.

The sketchpad lay there, exposed in Hannibal's study. Frances froze in her tracks; she only intended to write her frustrations away when her eyes landed on the picture. Rounded, plush and welcoming. All circles of silky skin, shadows barely clinging to the womanly curves that faced her. Hannibal's sketching was like no other; he poured his heart and soul into it, so much that she could nearly feel him through the lines. Where his picture of Florence had been academic, thousands of littles lines easily reproduced with white thread, this sketch only held curves. A tribute to womanhood… to motherhood.

A hiccup shook her frame; the tears leaked by themselves as she sat, defeated in his armchair. She couldn't tear her eyes away from the sketch; a possibility, a dream. One shattered in this very moment. Her eyes traced the fond smile spread over plump lips, the gentle fingers set around a rounded belly, hands cradling the child inside. The large, darkened nipples of engorged breast, resting peacefully over the oversized bump that should have been their baby. What incredible talent dwelt inside her husband; he had captured her likeness so easily, expanding his imagination to what she would have looked like pregnant with his child.

It was so beautiful, so heart wrenching magnificent. Even more so than his powerful body whenever he took her, all manners forgotten. No, this was different. Love and creation in its purest form; the result of a child born from them both.

Frances hid her face in her hands, sobbing like an infant whose favourite teddy bear had been left at school. Screaming, inside, her shame and regret for being a coward, and refusing to bring this child into the world. For listening to reason rather than her heart. Her heart was tearing, a deep hollow settling inside. Cold, heavy and unforbidden; it would never leave. Frances wondered, for once, if it came close to what Hannibal had felt when his sister was killed.

A tear landed on the paper, a little circular stain that horrified her.

Frances sprang from the chair, fleeing to the master bedroom where she remained, numb, watching the course of the sun in the spotless sky. How she hoped that her other self had been reunited with Legolas. Even more, that the original Keeper of Time found love again, built a family, experienced happiness.

Here, now, the world seemed so very bleak.

_**Leave a little messagen, eh ? Something to tell me what you liked and disliked in this very depressing moment. I've had poeple on wattpad pointing that you can be happy without children. If I do understand this point of view, I also understand the despair that happends if you do want children and are denied. Being a mother, I know what joy it brings to the world, even when you really want to bash their heads.**_


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